Before & Beyond Pain and Prejudice: A Reimagining, Part One
by YourLeananSidhe
Summary: Back story for Cassandra and Oswald, which continues into Gotham and later years. Her subsequent blindness and the canon around that will be addressed. The character of Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot written in this story is a composite of his personality taken from all forms of media about The Penguin. Tags: Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, Gotham, Pain and Prejudice, Batman comics
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

He recognized her voice immediately and the tidal wave of memories that crashed into him nearly sent him spiraling from his feet.

Using his umbrella for balance, Oswald hastened his shuffle along the dark hallway that led from his office to the reserved table in the center of the balcony. Below on stage was a familiar figure and he leaned slightly forward, grasping the brass barrier at his hip. His palm was sweaty and he had to wipe his hand on his tailor-made jacket before he could more firmly take hold of the partition. He was glad the lights were beaming down on her; otherwise, she might glance up here and recognize him, and he could not risk that—no matter how much he wanted to.

"Thank you, Gabe. I'm fine. That will be all." He dismissed his second in command with a wave of his hand without turning around. He did not want Gabe to see his distress. He fished around in his pocket and found his opera glasses. He needed to see her up close.

_She is not supposed to be here! I had fixed everything! _That unbalanced feeling returned and he hobbled to his seat.

The brunette singing below was supposed to be tucked safely away on a farm not too far outside of Gotham, where he had first met her and her uncle and where she had demanded that he be moved into one of the boarding rooms after her visit to the rented trailer one afternoon had resulted in both her and Oswald becoming covered with roaches. He had experienced that nightmare his first night, and from then on had taken to sleeping on top of the trailer, buried deep in blankets and pillows, under the stars.

It was there, on top of the metal trailer, that he starting paying attention to the sounds coming from the house. There were other boarders he had noted and on occasion, he would hear music, upbeat and loud. _Was that bagpipes?_

Once the sun set, however, the melodies quietened to almost a whisper and he would turn on his side, tucking the raggedy blankets under his chin, to spy on a blurry silhouette that moved around a second-story room. She added her own voice to those old songs played from ancient records, the ones that produced sounds closer to an echo, or a bad phone connection. Those nights he was lulled easily, and regretfully, to sleep.

He thought about that often. How one moment can change the course of lives.

He had returned from the disposal of his short-lived guest to find her standing on the stoop right outside his front door. His stomach had lurched at the sight of her, not just because she was lovely to look at, but also because he was not sure what she suspected, if anything, and what she wanted. He had been warned about women by his mother—particularly the ones who could use their beauty as both a weapon and a shield. He had learned the hard way that his mom had been right, especially about the pretty ones. They will break your heart.

Or try to kill you, he mirthlessly snorted as he thought of Fish Mooney.

Either way they leave you dead. So he did his best to stay clear of all of them. Except when he could not.

He had come limping to her, straightening the faded yellow collar and tugging at the dingy blue sweater. How he hated the clothes. _Whom would he have to kill around here to get a decent suit?_ He was irritated and intrigued and took a deep breath, plunging into the pseudo-politeness, a talent that was both a blessing and a bane—a "blaning"—for him. But it kept him alive and got him what he wanted, usually.

She turned to acknowledge him with a wave of her hand and he raised his, nodding his head once, to return the greeting.

Paranoia was buzzing through his veins. He had seen her throughout the week, but she had made no attempt to talk to him before now, although she had waved on occasion whenever he had ventured out of the mobile home, which wasn't often. Why of all days was she here now? Did she see something? He was distressed with the idea of having to . . . what? Kill her? Kidnap her?

He had to think fast, depending on what she said. The only time he had ever hurt a female was in high school when those three nasty girls had brutally bullied him. And it wasn't really him who had taken up the flag of defense and revenge—it was his faithful feathered friends.

Now a little snowbird of an angel stood on his tee tiny little porch.

His eyes widened. What if she knew he watched her? A thin line of sweat broke out on his brow and upper lip. This frightened him more than if he confessed that he had just buried a man.

He hadn't purposely set out to spy on her. He was just there, on top of the trailer, trying to sleep and avoid the cockroaches. And she was just there, where she was supposed to be—like a ballerina spinning in a jewelry box. On a pedestal and away from the filth.

Except she was a woman. And she was pretty. Which meant she was mean.

"I wasn't expecting visitors," he said, fumbling with the trailer keys, not that it did any good to have keys—the backdoor was halfway off its hinges and more than just one of the windows was cracked. He tottered up the wooden stairs and roughly brushed passed her, cringing as he imagined the grime and possibly blood from what-was-now-his-wardrobe transposing part of itself onto her white, willowy dress. But he had to pretend he didn't care, so that maybe she would just . . . please, God, make her go away.

She didn't go. She just stood down a step to make room for him to open the aluminum door before he could unlock the front door. In his usual ungraceful fashion—more pronounced now that his right leg had been mangled by Mooney—he spun on her to ready to insist she reveal the reason for her presence at his abode—and he had planned to say it like that because it sounded more intimidating that way—when he lost his balance and ended up caught in her free arm, her other hand griping the banister. She smelled sweet, like cake batter or a flower he could not name.

"I won't let you fall," she said.

She had said that a lot to him during the three weeks he had been at the farm. In the beginning, he had been legitimately at risk of falling, whether it was down stairs, across the pebbled driveway, or on the waxed farmhouse floors whenever he traipsed the place in his socks.

But sometimes . . . sometimes, he faked it. And she had been true to her words "I won't let you fall". She had caught him.

Every. Single. Time.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, Pablo" she said. He winced at the sound of the alias he had given them. "It's just that on Sunday afternoons, we invite our boarders to eat lunch together and since tomorrow is Sunday, I wanted to let you know."

"Oh, well thank you very much, but I am afraid that I will have to decline your gracious invitation. I am otherwise pre-engaged."

"I haven't even told you what time yet," she replied. She had a cute little frown that he was ignoring because he could not have her distracting him with that or her mouth that was still moving. "How do you know you can't come if I haven't even told you what time we were planning to eat?"

"All afternoon," he said rather loudly with an arm gesture that looked more like he was "vogue-ing" than trying to emphasize his statement. She shrugged.

"Suit yourself." If only he could, he thought, fingering the edge of the sweater. "The other reason I'm here is to fix that backdoor. I know it's loose. I was here earlier to fix it, but wanted to warn you first before I started tinkering with it. Wouldn't want you to think I was trying to snoop. Usually my uncle does this, but he has been under the weather recently, to say the least." She scampered down the steps and he paused.

"You were here earlier?"

"Yeah, but I thought I would wait. You didn't answer the door. I thought maybe you were out." He nodded and focused on the house behind her instead of her hair that was shining golden and crimson and chocolate brown all at the same time. Not that he noticed.

"Did you know you have a piece of duct tape in your hair?" Oswald swiftly reached up and covered the tape with his hand.

"I'm working on a project!" He sputtered and stepped inside.

"May I see it?" she called out.

"No!" he yelled before slamming the door. Dust popped up from everywhere in the room as though it were throwing him a surprise party and suspended itself in the beams of sunlight that Oswald begrudging had to allow into the room because the curtains were too small for the windows. The suspended dust looked like a slow-flowing dry waterfall—except the particles were traveling upwards because of the sudden draft from his entrance. He violently suppressed the urge to sneeze.

Oswald could hear the scuff of metal against wood as she slid what, he guessed, was the toolbox across the wooden stoop and the subsequent clatter of metal upon metal as she, he supposed, was searching for the right tool. Not that he was paying attention.

He looked at the Gotham collage above and visually followed the different strings that connected the various low-lives, decent folk, and companies, which had weaved together an increasingly interesting narrative. He stood there looking at his creation and listening to the sound of her removing the rusted hinges from the door, his panic building. Oswald gnawed on his bottom lip, trying to devise a plan to cover the collage before that door was removed. She would be free to enter once it was down.

"You know, you don't have to repair the door! It has caused me no misfortune whatsoever! No need to bother yourself! I assure you!" He shouted to her.

"Nonsense!" she yelled back. "No bother!" He twiddled his fingers on his hips and with great ineptitude marched down the narrow hallway to a backroom. Oswald rummaged around in boxes left by the previous tenant and pulled out a poster.

"Oh, you've got to be kidding me," he said aloud, scanning the box again and glancing around the room, just to be sure. Marching back into the living area, Oswald grabbed the duct tape and resigned himself to putting the poster over the collage, but not before jotting some Shakespeare over the image—an interest that had been cultivated with the help of his mother.

This will have to do, he thought, shaking his head. He was tearing the last strip of tape, when outside there was a yelp. The door had come loose and was tipping over on her.

"Hold on!" Oswald told her and leapt quicker than even he knew was possible for him to move, gritting through the pain in his right leg, and grabbed the door so it wouldn't crush her and send her backwards down the stairs. "I have it. I won't let it fall on you."

"Thanks," came the muffled reply. She moved the door slightly to the side and peered in at him. "I may need your help holding this while I apply the new hinges. Will you help me? Although why should you, right? You're the tenant—not the landlord."

"I'll assist you," Oswald grinned, appalled that not only was he was agreeing to help her—the enemy, but he was super excited to do it too, dammit.

Besides, he had to know if she had witnessed anything, and that was why he was continuing to converse with her, he told himself.

Really.

It was.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"So this is your big, top-secret project?" she clamped her lips together.

He sighed heavily and raised his eyebrows. "Indeed. I can imagine you are adequately impressed."

"Oh, I am." She nodded, pretending, and he not only knew it, he had expected it. Not one of his finer moments. But he continued to play along and so did she.

They lay shoulder to shoulder on the floor of his living room staring up at the poster of a pastel cartoon pony with Shakespearean sonnets scribbled across it.

The door had been repaired and he had given up and let her inside. Once her curiosity was satisfied, he figured, she would leave and it didn't matter how stupid he looked right now in front of this nobody, his eyes were on the bigger prize—owning Gotham. He would never see her after he left this place or have to think upon this moment ever again for as long as he lived.

Now, as he sat at his lonely little table up in the balcony, his psyche betrayed him and he fought every desire to simultaneously laugh and cry. He felt like a building condemned to demolition, with every little part of him crumbling inside.

He remembered how she had turned her head to look at him, humor in her eyes, and how she had laughed and said she liked it. He had stammered out an explanation comparing today's pop culture with what would have been considered pop culture during the Elizabethan Age.

"Today, there is a fandom for this pink pony just as there was a huge fandom for Shakespeare's plays during _that_ time period," he had told her. He had even done a pretty good job of convincing himself that it was a plausible study. She had asked him if he thought the queen had "squeed!" when Shakespeare had stepped on the stage, and that was when the woman who had lain beside him on that smelly floor all those years ago had stolen his heart.

She had cemented his trust with each time she caught him.

She had captured his respect by the way she treated every person she knew or met as if they mattered—whether she addressed a janitor or the mayor of her small town. This was when Oswald realized he had been wrong—she may be a nobody to people who _thought _they mattered, but she certainly was not a nobody to people she made to feel special, and she was certainly not a nobody to him.

He should have left earlier for home, for Gotham. He should not have stayed those three weeks on that farm.

He knew now what could kill him.

"Boss. Boss?" Gabe's voice brought him out of the past. The woman was still on the stage and the room was silent. "I'm sorry. I realize you did not want to be disturbed, but they are waiting for your answer. Do you want her?"

_Yes, absolutely_!

"No," Oswald said firmly. "Tell her to go back to whatever farm she came from and stay there." His voice cracked, but he kept going. "Tell her she is not what . . ." He cleared his throat, then spit out his next words as if he were in danger of being bitten by them. "Tell her she is not what Oswald's is looking for."

Watching the talent coordinator give her the news a few minutes later broke his heart and he had briefly considered running down there himself, as fast as his crippled leg could carry him, to tell her it was all a mistake, a misunderstanding, and pledge his undying love to her.

But it was better this way.

She would be safe.

He wouldn't have to add another person to the list of people he was already worrying about. He had himself, of course, his mother and Jim Gordon, the only honest man on the Gotham City Police force and quite possibly the only honest man in Gotham, and Gabe—his go-to guy. That was enough. As long as she was out of Gotham and safely tucked away, he would have no reason to worry.

Her shoulders slumped, but she exited stage left with dignity, and Oswald continued his repeated mantra that he was right. He leaned forward placing his elbows on the table and rested his forehead in his hands. _Just for a second_. He would give himself this small second to grieve and then get on with business.

Those questions that nagged him when he first met her plagued him now. _What did she want? Why was she here?_ He had taken care of everything—the mortgage on the farm, medical treatment for her uncle, it had even had it reported back to him that everything was all right, that they were okay. It made no sense that she was here now.

"Is there anything else I can get for you, Boss? Refresh your drink?" Gabe had reappeared at his side. He double-snapped his fingers and instantly Oswald's glass was taken away and replaced with a full one. Oswald emerged from his hands cocoon.

"What did she say?" he picked up the drink and indicated down to the empty spot where she had stood, sloshing part of the drink on the table. It reflected the light from the chandelier above. "I saw her say something. What was it?" Gabe took a deep breath.

"I repeated to the manager what you had said and told him to relay that to the woman."

"And?"

"And the woman said she did not have a farm, or family, to go back to." Oswald placed the drink down on the table with a heavy thud.

"What?" He ignored the sting from the alcohol that had escaped its crystal confinement and crept into an open cut on his hand.

"She has nowhere to go." Oswald glanced back at the stage.

"That's not possible," he whispered.

"_Boss?"_ Oswald shook his head and looked back up at Gabe.

"Look into it for me, will you? Make sure she is kept safe—arrange hotel, food, whatever she needs—until I know more."

"Sure thing, Boss," he said and started to walk off.

"And, Gabe?" Oswald's voice had gone up an octave. Gabe stopped and came back, waiting for his orders. "Not a word to anybody regarding this—not even her."

"I understand." Oswald nodded and gazed upon that empty space illuminated by the spotlight. He turned back around to Gabe who had not moved, and opened his mouth to speak.

"Quickly, Boss?" Relief washed over Oswald's face and he closed his mouth and nodded.

"Consider it already done."

But Oswald couldn't wait. He had to track her to see where she would go from here. He cancelled the rest of the auditions and slipped out the alleyway door, locking it securely behind him.

There was a damp chill in the air, and he turned up the collar of his coat lapel, the coarseness of the wool grazing his jawline. He scratched his chin with fingernails that had bitten down to the quick, a gift of his anxiety.

Although he preferred this time of year, the iciness that clung to the air caused his leg to ache more than usual. Oswald had promised himself, he would make Fish Mooney pay dearly for the injury she had inflicted on him. Someday his humiliating scars would be honorable badges.

He came around the alley corner and stood on the sidewalk observing the city. He did not know which way to go and considered calling Gabe, but could not believe his luck the woman appeared out of a deli with a brown bag in her hand. The wind whipped her hair and blew open the lower part of her coat. She hesitated for a moment and glanced at the sky. It was overcast and cold; nothing new in Gotham, and she adjusted her collar, turning it up to cover her neck, before exiting from under the eave of the store. Oswald grinned.

At least she was heading uptown, and not in the opposite direction. Gabe appeared a few strides behind her and Oswald followed on the other side of the street. She made no other stops and within the course of few minutes, Oswald found himself standing outside an average-looking grey building, a hotel that had been grand in it younger years, but was more Southern belle in torn crinolines nowadays. The young lady entered and Gabe subsequently followed her in.

Oswald waited until he saw Gabe emerge before calling him from his cellphone. He usually prided himself on his patience, it was how he had made it to his present station in life, but this was causing him a bit of consternation. He had to know something, anything, _now_.

"Well?" Oswald asked him. "What have you found out?"

"She is staying at the Pinkney Inn and the clerk said she is paid up through Friday, so she has a couple more days. She has been here since Monday afternoon. She came alone. She receives no visitors. She leaves at nine in the morning and returns at various times in the afternoon, but always by five, before it gets dark. The clerk said he only saw her with two suitcases and her purse. I am about to look into the other matter—why she is here."

"Good. Keep me updated on everything, no matter how insignificant. I am going to give you a name. Start there."

"Sure thing, Boss."

Oswald hung up the phone a moment later, still rooted to the spot in front of the hotel. He wanted so badly to go in there and talk to her. But he would not let himself. Instead, he turned on his good heel and trudged back to the lounge.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

He dreamt he was back there on the farm, lying on the floor with her shoulder touching his, that hint of warmth radiating from her body into his.

_Just for today_, he thought. _Just for today. She'll grow bored and leave him alone soon enough_.

That prospect comforted him and frightened him. He wanted her to go. He wanted her to stay.

She had lifted herself onto her left elbow and leaned over him touching something in his hair. He was certain his heart had skipped a beat, or had been plummeted by extra ones, he was not sure. What he was certain of however was that his stomach had lurched again and introduced itself to his diaphragm.

"You realize you still have tape in your hair?" she asked. He reached up with his left arm, intending to feel the tape, but his fingers intertwined with hers briefly, before she withdrew her hand.

"Do you have any scissors?" she asked. His eyes widened.

"I am not cutting my hair. I worked very hard to get this look."

She sat up and removed the top tray from the toolbox. "This should do it then," she said, holding up a blue bottle. Oswald watched the foam dance across her fingertips while he sat up. She motioned her hand toward him.

"Is this okay?" she asked. Mustering all the intelligence that he could to offer a witty response, all Oswald could do was nod. She worked the foam into his hair and around the tape using both hands. He closed his eyes and inwardly fought competing thoughts and emotions.

He hated her. She was invading his space. She's mean. Don't believe this.

He wanted to impress her. Say something to make her laugh. Do it _now_.

He didn't care what she thought. She was beneath him. Just another pawn. Not as important as a pawn. More important than a pawn. Not a pawn.

Her arm brushed the left side of his face; her knees rested against his wounded leg. They felt like exquisite bruises and he took full joy in the dull pain that they caused him. Mother was right. She would only hurt him.

"Is it almost dislodged?" he asked, finally finding his voice, a slight edge to it.

"Yes. Almost." She answered with a question in hers. She moved her left arm over his head and rested it on top of his right shoulder careful not to touch his sweater, hair, or face with her oily fingers. Her other arm rested on his left shoulder, relieving the ache that being elevated at such an awkward angle had caused. She continued to move her fingers around the tape in a circular motion and gently pulled it out of his hair.

"Success!" she leaned back on her heels and held up the grey tape. He was both relieved and disappointed. "Trashcan?" she asked, looking around. "And I need to wash my hands."

"Over there," he pointed. "Not that it would matter in this place. You could throw it down anywhere and . . . not that I'm implying that this place is—" His eyes had gotten really big once he realized his faux pas. "I didn't mean . . ." He got to his feet and started to approach her.

"Relax," she said over her left shoulder as she washed her hands at the kitchen sink. "I haven't been on the inside of this trailer in a long time, obviously." She leaned against the counter and put one hand on her hip. "You can say it—this place is a dump. Believe me, my uncle and I will be discussing this promptly. I'm just surprised I haven't seen any roaches yet-or is this place too nasty for even them? But of course it's too nasty. What a silly question."

"No, truly. I am grateful just to have a roof over my head." He did not mention sleeping outside to avoid his other roommates. "It meets all my needs."

"I'm kidding, Pablo," she came to him and glanced up at the ceiling. "It meets all your needs for your in-depth, truly genius, although I know you are pulling my leg, pop culture theory analysis of today's icons compared to yesteryear's . . . sire," she teased with a flourishing sweep of her arm and partial bow. The same arm that had moments before rested upon his left shoulder. Not that he cared.

She shrugged. "Still, this actually makes for an interesting project. Thanks for showing it to me. I'll let you get back to it." He knew that she suspected he was up to something, but she never hinted at it. She walked past him to retrieve her toolbox and then past him again to the front door.

_Quick! Say something! He had to show her how well versed he was._

"Do you want to know why I chose those particular sonnets?" he asked, spinning on his good leg and wringing his hands. _What was he doing?_ It was as if he was watching from a remote feed and could not stop himself. She hesitated and then said "okay" and sat back down on the carpet underneath the poster. He wasted no time in joining her.

He hadn't realized they had fallen asleep until he woke to a small tickling sensation on the side of his neck, which he quite suddenly deduced—to his _severe_ chagrin—was not her hair. Or even his. He slapped it away only to have another one take its place. _Oh, crap!_ There was more movement as the woman beside him suddenly pressed herself rather roughly against him, elbowing him in ribs.

"Pablo?" The timbre in her voice ascended as if she were running musical scales.

Bursting out the trailer's front door, she chastised him for not 'oh-by-the-way mentioning' that his place was overrun with cockroaches. There had been panic in her voice when she had woken in the dark, in his trailer, with vermin crawling on her and he had abruptly stood, pulling her up with him, and pushing her out the door. Now they inspected themselves and each other for the offending creatures.

"It doesn't bother me anymore," he said. She stared at him incredulously and then flicked a roach off his arm, before breaking into another shivering dancey dance. "I have resigned myself to slumbering at a more elevated level." He said, once he stopped laughing at her and had her full attention again. She frowned.

"You mean on top of the trailer?"

He nodded, still grinning. "I'm afraid so."

"Have you done that every night?"

He nodded again. "Well, except the first night, when they introduced themselves to me." She gasped and grabbed his hand.

"Well, that's not happening anymore." She started a brisk walk to the farmhouse, pulling Oswald along, but slowed to a pace that could accommodate him. They had only gone a few feet, when she abruptly stopped with her back to him. She let go of his hand, lifted her hair, and began running in place.

"Get it! Get it! Get it!" she screamed, which he promptly did, doing his own shiver dance afterwards, the result of his fingertips making contact with both the insect and her skin. She twirled around and said with authority, "I am burning this dress, and more importantly that trailer."

Little did she know that he had taken that dress before she could follow through with the threat, even if it was an empty one, and it was now packed safely away within a gilded box. He had taken it as a token, a habit he had developed at a young age—of keeping things—objects that he could hold as tangible memories—for those times when the ones in his mind were not enough.

On this starless night in Gotham, Oswald stirred and allowed himself to be buoyed further into that weightless dream state. He shifted in the silk sheets, turning over onto his stomach. It did not hurt as much to move in silk sheets. He had to have silk. It was easier to adjust his leg. He became entangled in cotton or linen, especially linen, and it caused him unnecessary pain.

Her dress was linen. She had smelled of gardenias.

Letting out a sigh, he buried half his face in his pillow.

_Cassandra,_ he wondered. _Why are you in Gotham_?


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Cassandra kicked off her shoes and hopped onto the hotel bed, the springs screeching with every, single, little move she made. It was like a fun bouncy house without the fun. Or the house.

She had a hole in the heel of her "classy" stockings, the kind with the seam that runs up the back, and she swore. _These are my last pair! Really? What more am I to lose?_

Normally something like this would not bother her, but she had lost so much within such a short amount of time, she was ready to crack. She ignored that creeping crazy feeling that teased her from somewhere within that darkness that she knew she possessed. _I am not giving up_, she whispered to it. It just laughed and slinked away. She had not allowed herself time to grieve—there was no time, after all—and it kept floating back to her like a big black bubble.

She got the bottle of clear nail polish out of her purse to repair the run, but not before she turned on the television to invite more despair into her life. There was never any good news in this city of Gotham. She would not have even come here except it was closer than Metropolis and she definitely wanted to stay out of Bludhaven. _Oh, well. Two more days_, she thought. If no job prospects came along, she would move on. _How could so much have gone so wrong in such a short amount of time? _

Two months earlier, the farm had fallen into foreclosure and the bank came calling with the note. The non-working farm had gone into further disarray and because of her uncle's illness, he had had to take out another mortgage on the home to help offset medical bills. She certainly did not blame him for that, but when the money from the boarders could no longer cover their debt, everything fell away.

That included her uncle. He had passed away at 2 a.m., January 15th. She remembered the date because it was also the day Mr. Jeb Green, an unwanted suitor and affiliate of the bank, came calling for the last time. Within two weeks of kicking him out, she and her boarders found themselves without a home. Gathering up what tiny amount of cash she had saved, she took the next bus to Gotham.

Looking back she considered that maybe she should have married that pampered, pushy, tyrant of a man who continuously tried to court her.

No, she had made the right decision.

Marriage by blackmail was not the way to happily ever after, if anything truly was. She had never been attracted to the Hollywood Ken Doll type, which is exactly what Mr. Green embodied, and though she would not turn her nose up to money, she could not make herself earn it that way. People are not commodities. Her uncle would have chastised her mercilessly if she had accepted Mr. Green's immodest proposal.

Pablo had not taken too kindly to him either, even bluntly putting him in his place by defending her on one occasion when the brute just would not accept that Cassandra was spurning his advances, or as Mr. Green referred to it—charity.

Mr. Green had slithered in through the kitchen's back door, careful not to make a sound. It had been dusk, right after dinner and some of the boarders had retired to their rooms. Others were lounging in the living area where there was a fire lit and music playing from a gramophone. Cassandra had come through the swinging door separating the two rooms and had found Mr. Green sitting at the table, enjoying a cup of hot tea. He stood when he saw her.

"Ah, Miss Cassie."

"Cassandra," she corrected.

"Just the person I wanted to see."

"How did you get in?" He held up a key.

"You know that's illegal," she said, knowing it would not make any difference, and he knew it as well. He shrugged. "I just found it lying on the steps outside. Someone must have dropped it." He held the key out to her and she snatched it out of his hand.

_Found it, my fanny!_ She made a mental note to have all the locks changed and then wondered how many other keys he may have "found" and if this was the only time he had crept in uninvited. She slipped the key into her apron pocket.

"How may I help you, Mr. Green?" She had made it a point to never call him by his first name. He would mistake it for some kind of intimacy.

She placed the collection of plates she had in her hands into the sink and he approached her from behind, leaning against her as well as over her to lower his cup into the sink. "I think you know," he said. When he would not retreat, she had turned and pushed him away from her.

"Get off me!"

Pablo had walked in just then with his fork and plate in hand, and Cassandra noticed his eyes turn an icier shade of blue. He grabbed the utensil and hobbled briskly to stand in-between them with the prongs jabbing Mr. Green in the gut, throwing the plate in the sink.

"You know, Mr. Green—_Jeb_, I can call you that, _can't I, Jeb_?" Pablo asked with a smile. Jeb stuttered an answer and pointed to his stomach. "Good, wonderful. Now, as I was saying, _Jeb_, I have watched you invade this fine home time after time and have listened to you drone on with your insincere and, quite frankly, despicable use of platitudes that do not even breed enough true affection to warm a dumpster dog. And do you know why, _Jeb_?" Jeb shook his head vigorously, the prongs having poked through his shirt.

Cassandra placed a hand on Pablo's arm, which only seemed to embolden him. "Because to quote Shakespeare, _Jeb—_do you know Shakespeare, Jeb? Because I doubt very much that you do, so let me educate you, _Jeb,_" he continued, "You, sir, are '_a very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow.' _Do you understand what I am saying?" Mr. Green nodded again, little spots of blood were starting to seep through the fabric. "Frankly put, _Jeb_, I find you distasteful and I would wager to say that so do the occupants of this home." He tilted his head a bit in Cassandra's direction with his eyes still on his hapless victim. "Cassandra, would you say I am being presumptuous in stating that you do not enjoy this man's company?"

"You're not being presumptuous." Pablo nodded and shrugged.

"She says I'm not being presumptuous."

"I-I-I understand." The shaking man started to sidestep Pablo. "I-I will just see myself out." Pablo followed him to the door.

"Oh, and, Jeb," he said politely. "If you ever come around here again, or if it is ever even _insinuated_ to me that you have been here or harassed this lady again, I will hunt you down and gut you like a fish." Pablo placed a hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. "Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Mr. Green had not come back around until he had been certain that Pablo was long gone from the farm and the town. Then his visits had become more frequent and even less appropriate.

Pablo used to joke that he would kill him for her and bury him in various places throughout their small town, or use him to fertilize the soil. After that display, she wondered if he had meant it and chided herself that she was more concerned with him getting caught than actually doing it. After all, a person like Mr. Green was dangerous and should be, at the very least, jailed.

_Not likely._

Sometimes she had thought she might do the deed herself and came close one night when his unannounced visit turned very ungentlemanly. At least she had gotten in a good kick. She took great pleasure in knowing that Mr. Green could not walk upright for a week after that.

But if she had taken him up on his offer of matrimony, her uncle would still be alive and they would still have the farm, and those boarders would still have a place to live. It was hard to fight off the feeling that this was all her fault; it plagued her like a mosquito that she vainly tried to shoo away. Its persistent . . . _buzz . . . buzz . . . buzz_ . . . pestering her like Mr. Green did.

Cassandra took the pasta out from the brown bag, spreading the bag on the quilt like a placemat, and setting the plastic utensils and aluminum plate on top. There was a mini-refrigerator in the room and she felt like she had found gold when she discovered her favorite soda in the back.

A ray of setting sunlight snuck through one of the curtains and she stopped to stand in it, parting the material slightly to gaze down on the street below. The window was scratched and opaque in spots, but she could still see through it.

A solitary figure caught her eye and she straightened her posture. She knew him. She was sure of it. He had just turned away when she saw the tell-tell limp before he was lost in the crowd and then disappeared completely out of her view courtesy of a caravan of buses.

That man below had left her standing in the darkness of the farm's kitchen at midnight, tumbling out the backdoor carrying nothing but a duffel bag. Unlike Cinderella, he had left her no clue how to find him. Besides, he had made it clear he did not want to be found.

_Said I would understand one day_, she remembered. _Said it would be safer if I did not go with him._

"I am starting to think you hate me, gypsy boy," she murmured to herself. Cassandra grabbed her coat anyway and got stuck in the hotel's revolving door trying to get to him before he was too far away. She knew his limp would slow him down, so she ran in the direction she had seen him go, hoping she might be able to catch up.

_What are you going to say to him if you do? Have you considered he may not want to see you? Of course, he wouldn't. That is why you are _here_, and he is _there_. _

She slowed her pace. He was nowhere in sight. _Just go on back to the hotel, Cassandra. Just go on back. Go to sleep and decide what to do tomorrow._

She was annoyed by her lack of fortitude, collapsing inwardly like a marionette whose strings had been cut. This was not who she was. _Keep going. Go after him_.

A blast of cold air caused her unbuttoned coat to billow around her, the belt flapping in the wind like it was frantically waving goodbye to someone. The effect was not lost on Cassandra and she slowly turned around and headed back to the hotel.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

After burning the remnants of her dinner in the trashcan along with the box and bag it had come in, Cassandra crawled into bed. She lay awake staring at the ceiling. The light was still on in the bathroom because she had been too exhausted to get back up and turn it off, besides she wanted a little bit of light. She did not like complete darkness.

There was a solitary crack that stretched across the entire ceiling from her left to her right directly above her. It was bowed and the paint had buckled and was starting to flake around it. She was sure she would wake up with flecks of ivory-colored chips in her hair.

It looked like a really long overweight snake had stretched out in the room above her and caused the ceiling to slightly collapse, threatening to fall in on her at any second.

Police sirens and the wail of ambulances seemed to pass on the street below every ten minutes—she was so certain of this, she considered setting her watch by it. The cry of the sirens was followed by the glow of spinning red and blue lights. It was as if she was in a nightclub suffering through pulsating strobes and a discombobulated dance track.

_So opposite from the duet of the frogs and the crickets at home, _she lamented, remembering how she would gather the frogs away from the house when she had finally run out of patience listening to their croaking and dump them unceremoniously in the swamp behind their property.

She could not do anything about the crickets.

Now she could not do anything about the sirens.

_I should have just taken Pablo up on his offer to kill Mr. Green_, she bleakly snorted.

The bank, up until _his_ appearance, had always been willing to work with Cassandra and her uncle, as well as others within the town—correction, township—being that their community was so small that they did not even have their own police force, just a couple of retired state troopers. Although, it was rare for altercations to happen, the volunteer service of these officers never went unappreciated or unnoticed.

Or unneeded. There were those minor occasions where they had put their lives on the line, and that was primarily the fault of transients from the surrounding cities causing trouble.

_Kind of like Mr. Green._

That jerk presented problems for everyone, even going so far as threatening neighbors who offered Cassandra a place to stay. This is why she now found herself in Gotham so quickly with nothing but some clothes, books, and a few sentimental knickknacks, one being a mechanical bird that Pablo had built using some spare parts from watches. She had even added her own touch to it.

He had helped her take a couple of extra oxygen tanks that her uncle needed for his health down to the basement and he noticed the table where she and her uncle would occasionally sit and fiddle with broken watches, computers, radios, whatever was beyond repair. It had even become a running joke that if it could not be restored to what it originally was, bring it here and it can be "phoenixed" into something else.

"I just cannot get it to fly," Pablo had said, his chin down on his arm, as they watched the tiny brass bird teeter across the table, its gears hissing. Cassandra held out her hands as the toy continued its trek across the table to her.

"I think I may have something that can fix that," she said, swooping it up and giving it a kiss before taking it apart. She added something from her boxes of wires and cogs, and by the time she was finished, the little bird looked like he was wearing a miniature pewter beanie with blades. She put it back together, placed an apparatus underneath it, and pressed down.

The toy shot off like a whirlybird on speed, its blades spinning quickly at first, and then slowing until it fell haphazardly into her lap. Pablo chuckled and she placed the bird back on the table.

"May have to work on the landing," she grinned sheepishly.

"It is an excellent initial attempt," he encouraged her. "I, myself, as you witnessed, could not devise a means for its flight whatsoever. And you are certainly not lacking in your choice of spare parts." He sat back in his chair spreading his arms to indicate the stacks of old appliances and forgotten devices decorating the basement.

As the days went on, she found that Pablo was spending more time at the house and less time in the trailer. He went around with her fixing what he could, telling her he was trying to earn his keep. She felt like butterflies were giving high-fives to each other in her stomach whenever she saw him. Or thought of him. Which was a lot.

It no longer mattered.

There was no convincing him to stay with her. He had mentioned someone back home that he had to return to, never revealing where he lived.

"Wife?" Cassandra asked, holding her breath. She had not noticed him wearing a wedding band, but one could never be sure.

His cheeks bloomed with a rosy blush. He had offered to help with dishes, another indication that he was willing to work for his lodging, and she handed him another plate. Their fingers touched briefly as he rinsed it under the running water.

"No. No, I assure you." A bashful grin creeping across his face. "Nothing of the sorts."

Cassandra took full advantage of admiring his profile as he looked back down into the kitchen sink. He had a sharp nose, almost like a beak, which some might find unattractive, but she thought it added character to his face, which only made him more appealing. She studied the subtle freckles that were scattered across that imperial nose and fought the urge to caress his face to see if it was as soft as the alabaster stone it resembled. His ebony hair fell in uncontrolled layers and dark, long lashes served as frames around aquamarine eyes.

She had a sudden urge to lick him like a lollipop.

"Cassandra?" His lips reminded her of pink rock candy. "Cassandra?"

"Huh?'

"Did you hear me?" She blinked and straightened up, pulling her attention from his mouth to his eyes.

"Oh, yeah," she said, finding something incredibly interesting to concentrate on in the sudsy water. She quickly glanced back up at him. He was doing that sideways thing he did with mouth when he is considering something. Not that she meant to look at his mouth again.

He turned partially toward her. There was playfulness in his eyes. "What did I say?"

"You mentioned your mother and then asked if I was going to clean this bowl, which I am, and here you go." She handed Pablo the bowl.

"Uh huh," he said, as if she had said something he clearly did not believe.

Or as if he had just discovered something.

Narrowing his eyes at her, he took the bowl, but did not immediately rinse it. She felt him examining her as she searched around in the water for more dirty dishes and unsuccessfully tried to fight the heat rising from her chest.

_Oh, my gosh, I can feel it creeping up my neck like a slow burning fuse_, she thought. She looked at him again, a trifle more boldly, mimicking his stance and ignoring the flush she knew covered her face. As unexpectedly as his jovial countenance had appeared, it was replaced by a sudden sadness. She actually saw the brightness leave his eyes to be replaced by a shadow, almost like window blinds had been pulled down over the life in his pupils.

Sighing he turned and rinsed the bowl before placing it in the dish rack. Cassandra fished the drain stopper out of the sink and it burped at her, sucking the cloudy water down the drain.

Pablo turned to her again and leaned in like he was going to whisper something , not meeting her eyes, but then changed his mind and started to walk out of the kitchen. His leg must have been bothering him more than usual because she heard him hiss.

"Wait." He stopped at her command, but did not turn around. She opened the pantry door and took a walking cane from its corner.

"Here," she said, coming around to face him and handed it to him.

"I am not a cripple," he spat. The venom surprised her.

"I know that," She had embarrassed him. She seemed to have a gift for tripping over her words and deeds. She apologized and said gently, but firmly, "This isn't to help you walk; it's to help relieve the pain when you do. I never considered you crippled." She saw him wilt and he took the cane.

"It's appreciated," he said, nodding his head. "Truly, I did not mean to be so impolite. It is a kind gesture. Thank you. Now, if you will excuse me." She watched him leave to retire to his room instead of joining the others in the living area.

It seemed like she was always watching him leave.

Cassandra thought back to the night he had left for good. She pushed the memory away. It was too painful. All of it was too painful.

The loss had been great, beyond great—there were no words—the loss of his company and the loss of her home. He would not stay and she could not go with him.

Pablo had even insisted that she not accompany him under any circumstance, and she knew she would never leave her uncle alone. Sometimes, however—and rather guiltily, she had entertained the thought of deserting everything anyway and running after Pablo regardless, ignoring his puzzling insistence that it was "imperative to her welfare" for her to stay put, or his hurtful proclamations that she was an "unwanted distraction".

Giving it all up for him.

But not for Mr. Green. _Never_ for Mr. Green. The satisfaction she felt from administering the final jab to that man was exhilarating.

The day he had come claiming the house for his own, he unequivocally let her know that nothing was to be removed from the home. It was all his now. He owned everything—inside and out, everything on the property was his. She was not to take anything with her. He was lenient, however, in allowing her some of her personal items, clothes, and the like, if she was still insisting on turning down his marriage proposal.

He had verbally insulted her when she said that she was still not going to marry him and the situation escalated from there with his groping and subsequent groin injury. His driver had to be called in to carry him from the living room. Mr. Green had apparently said nothing about the source of his injury—damage to pride. This actually nagged at her. She should probably be watching her back.

_Really, Cassandra. You are paranoid. Surely he would not track you to Gotham City. You aren't _that_ important. _

Of course, though, there was the _other_ thing.

She was in the basement when the last tenant came down to say goodbye.

"I'm sorry we couldn't be of more help." The elderly gentleman reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. Cassandra offered him a melancholy smile and waved off his concern.

Sighing, she glanced around and spotted the metal cylinders in the corner. "Know where I could donate two tanks of oxygen?" The old man leaned back. When he did not answer, she looked at him.

"Now, Cassandra, Jeb said nothing was to leave this property. I reckon that includes those oxygen tanks. Just got to be careful how you store them. They are highly explosive—could turn a home into a furnace in no time flat," he said with a grin. "Shame if something happened to this property before that piece of smug crap. . ." he injected a few more choice adjectives and nouns. ". . . had a chance to enjoy it." For a moment, neither spoke, then Cassandra broke the silence.

"A real shame," she agreed.

Cassandra only wished she could have seen Jeb's face when he had arrived at the property. She believed she could call him "Jeb" at this point since they had a shared intimacy between them now. After all, she _had_ burned down his house.

Oh, and she set the trailer on fire for extra measure.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Oswald sat on the barstool in his lounge looking down at the elderly couple. He held a shotgun in one hand.

Damn. He had just gotten the blood up from the last time. He sighed heavily. Yes, technically speaking, it was a tragedy, truly, but . . . he had to survive.

His hand had been forced. It could not have been avoided. It was something he was not proud of . . . but he was not ashamed of it either.

Actually, he really had no feelings about it one way or another.

It was self-preservation after all—self-defense really. But still, all this could have been avoided if only that old man had not knocked on the car window. If only Oswald could have stayed there in the backseat unseen.

Leading Jim Gordon and Harvey Bullock to the secret location used by Falcone and Loeb was probably not so good an idea after all. But he had thought he would get something out of it. He kind of did. Jim now owes him a favor.

But still.

The couple had to go. It was as simple as that. He had to be certain that his cover was not blown with Carmine Falcone, the most powerful crime lord Gotham had ever created. A position he wanted for himself, and no one was going to stop him from getting it.

Not an elderly couple—who knew, by the way, what they were getting into when they agreed to work with corrupt officials like Commissioner Loeb—and not a freakish bird-girl who also happened to be the Commissioner's daughter and who had taken a shine to Oswald when she had wandered down from her bedroom. She was crazy and no one would believe her rambles. He hoped. He would have to think on that one.

And not a woman who held no appointments and lived on a failed farm in the middle of nowhere. _Cassandra._

No matter how many times she had his back.

No matter she never talked down to him.

No matter she never raised her hand to strike him.

These things did not matter, he kept telling himself.

In fact, it mattered so little that he found himself outside a well-established dance hall waiting for Cassandra to come out. He would stay hidden of course. He just wanted to see her and follow her for a while.

_This does not make me a stalker._

He gripped the umbrella with a leather-clad hand.

_This makes me a businessman. Someone fell short on their end of the deal and I intend to make them pay for it. I made an investment and I will not have someone con me out of it._

His phone rang. It was Gabe.

"What is it?'

"The name you gave me? Green?"

"Yeah?"

"He has his hands in a couple of real estate dealings, including the farm you mentioned. It's in his name. He owns it; well, he owns the land. Apparently, there was a fire and the house and trailer burned to the ground. It was designated an accident. Faulty storage of oxygen tanks set off an explosion in the house."

Oswald grinned. "Is that so," he said. _I probably paid for those oxygen tanks. Clever use of them._ "And the trailer?"

Gabe chuckled. "Well, Boss. It seemed like everyone agreed—_except for Mr. Green,_ _that is_—that sparks from the house started the trailer fire." Oswald nodded and continued to watch the door to the dancehall.

"Sparks?"

"Yeah . . . really big ones. That's what's on the official report." Oswald breathed out a nose laugh. "As a result of this being ruled an accident, Green will be receiving insurance money," Gabe continued.

"How did he get his hands on the property?" Oswald asked. The wind flirted with his hair and he stepped back, further into the shadows and leaned against the concrete wall. _What was taking her so long?_

"It went into foreclosure. He paid cash." Oswald's brows shot up. Foreclosure? Cash? He really should not be surprised. Almost all transactions in and around Gotham were done with bills—didn't leave a paper trail. But it was not supposed to be foreclosed upon.

A thought occurred to him. _Son-of-a . . ._

"And when, pray tell, did this transaction take place?" Gabe mentioned the date and Oswald swore aloud. He had not risked blood, sweat, and poisoned cannoli to let some upstart steal his money right from underneath him. That worm Green had robbed him of the cash he had taken . . . earned . . . rerouted from Maroni.

Philanthropy is hard work.

"Where is Green now?" _I am going to twist his plastic head off. Right after I dismember someone else._

"He's here in Gotham."

"Bring him to me. There is just one more stop I have to make." Oswald glanced at the building across the street. He really did not want to leave, but this had to be addressed right now.

He walked a few paces before looking back over his shoulder, just in case. Still no sign of her, so he headed toward the home of the man who had been in charge of making the payment to the bank, the transaction that would have stopped the farm's foreclosure until Oswald could have done more. He was also the man who was supposed to oversee that Cassandra's uncle got what he needed.

_Never send a drunk to do a sober man's job_, he thought. Looking back, however, he knew this man had been his only option at helping Cassandra. He had been the one person Oswald could send to do his bidding without being detected by those that wanted his hide. Besides, this low-level thug had owed him a favor, and Oswald had been given no reason to doubt that the job had been done—he had the bank receipt, for goodness sake. Green must have intercepted the payment and forged a signature. Either way, things were looking pretty dim for the man whose door he was pounding on now.

"Ed! Open up!" The door swung open to reveal a very haggard-looking blonde, Mrs. Ogilvy, Ed's wife.

"Ed is not available," she said with a tired grin. Oswald could hear the television on in the background, and a crying baby.

"Who is it, Ann?" called a voice. Before she could reply, Oswald leaned in and offered him that information.

"It's your old friend, Oswald Cobblepot!" Oswald could tell it was dark inside, but the light from the flickering TV lit up the room like subtle lightning strikes. "We need to talk, Mr. Ogilvy."

There was a moment of silence. Then, "Let him in, Ann." Oswald shuffled into the room as Ed muted the sound on the television. Ed did not say anything, he just waited. Oswald did not speak either. He just stood there grinning down at him. Ann turned to Oswald.

"Could I get you something to drink, Mr. Cobblepot? Maybe some nice hot tea?"

"Oh, no, no," Oswald replied shaking his head, and waving away her offer. "Sounds tempting, but I must pass. I will not be here for long. I have some unfinished business with your husband that needs wrapping up." Mr. Ogilvy looked around Oswald to his wife.

"Ann, I would love some tea, dear. Thank you."

She grinned and nodded. "Let me check on the baby and I'll be right back."

"So, it looks like you are one big happy family here," remarked Oswald. "Shame if something should happen that would destroy this fairy-tale." He had watched Ann leave the room and now returned his gaze to Ed.

"You think this is a fairy-tale?" Ed spread his hands and laughed.

"It's more than what Fortuna has handed to some of us."

"Fortuna?" he laughed. "Careful, your thin skin is showing. I know you better than to believe you would take anything Fortuna handed to you. You make your own way. Hell, you would take out Fortuna to get ahead," he snorted and pretended he was not afraid of Oswald Cobblepot. He needed to get him out of the house and away from them. Quickly.

"What do you want?" he hissed. "I did everything you asked. I am no longer in your debt." Before Ed could say another word, Oswald was upon him with a knife to his throat.

"Green has the property. Do you know what I'm referring to?" Ed nodded and Oswald pressed the knife further into the man's throat. "You fool, I told you to avoid him. You did not do as I asked. Do you have _any idea_ what you have done?" Oswald straightened up quickly when he heard Ann returning and stepped back a few paces. Ed looked up at him through bleary, red-rimmed eyes.

"How is the infant, Ms. Ogilvy?" Oswald blinked a few times and clasped his hands behind his back.

"Sleeping like a baby now, Mr. Cobblepot," she laughed, handing Ed a china cup and saucer. The saucer was cracked. "Listen to me—a baby sleeping like a baby. How funny!"

"Indeed, Mrs. Ogilvy. Quite humorous—the comparison," he chuckled along with her.

"Second chance, Mr. Cobblepot. A refreshment?"

"Thank you, sincerely, but no. I must be going soon."

"All right then, and would you gentlemen mind keeping it down to a whisper? I just got the little one back to sleep."

"Of course, Mrs. Ogilvy. We will be as quiet as church mice," he whispered as he leaned toward her.

After Ann had left the room, Ed checked to be sure she could not see him and produced a bottle from his pocket and poured a little of the amber liquid into his tea. Bourbon.

Oswald wiped the corners of his mouth and shook his head. "It will always be what you love most," mumbled Oswald.

"What?" slurred Ed. He had gulped down the tea and bourbon mixture in one motion and followed it with a few slugs from the bottle. Then he started laughing.

"You gonna kill me, Oz? Right here in my own home? Hell, I feel like I'm already dead." He shifted his eyes sideways to look at Oswald. "Besides, you would have a witness. You gonna kill her too?"

_It is just a matter of time_, Oswald thought. He would save Ed for last. Watch him suffer as he loses the woman he supposedly loves. Oswald stood there for a moment, staring at the slovenly man. He needed an answer.

"Green said I could trust him," whispered Ed.

"And I told you, you could not. How much had you had to drink that day, Ed?" He did not respond, except to look down at his lap.

"I'll see myself out," Oswald said. Ed shrugged and replied, "You do that."

_This is not my fault. Ed brought this on himself_. _If he could have just stayed sober, even relatively sober. How hard were those instructions?_

Oswald closed the door behind him and stood on the sidewalk gazing in through the window. Ann had come back to sit on the arm of the couch beside Ed and placed her head on his. Ed reached up and stroked her arm, the back of her neck.

_Bad move, Ed. I can see you._

Oswald heard her laugh. Rage and regret flared up throughout every fiber of his cold little body, warming him. He pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and called Gabe.

"Arrange some theater tickets to be sent to the Ogilvy's, Gabe. They deserve a night out. Tell them . . ." he watched Ann kiss the top of Ed's head, and he gritted his teeth. "Tell them they won a contest."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"She cannot dance," huffed the instructor at the prestigious Gotham Hall.

"She dances just fine," said the general manager. "I know you have your favorite, but it's just the one dance, and I know you can spin miracles. I have seen you turn a klutz into a swan in just a matter of weeks." The man blushed and twirled his skinny mustache. "Thank you. This is true," he replied with mock humility. It was a true statement; there was no denying it.

"Besides, you need the challenge, I think. Let's see what you can do with two days."

Wayne Enterprises was hosting a charity gala for the non-profit Children's Advocacy Center and Cassandra was lucky enough to be cast as one of the entertainers. It was only for one night, and it was only one routine, but she needed the money. Besides, it would look good on a resume. The ballroom was an exquisite venue. Everybody wanted to be connected to it in some form.

Cassandra had shown up to the audition at 9 a.m. sharp and had fully expected to be turned away. She was surprised when her name was called. It had been through chance that someone had tipped her off there was an opening for a dancer that needed to be filled immediately. She had almost passed it up, thinking it was more along the lines of pole dancer until she was informed it was for a charity event to be held at Gotham Hall. How she got the job was a mystery to her.

She had hoped to be able to use some of the day to track down Pablo. She realized he did not want to be found, but she was compelled, regardless of his desire to stay hidden, to find him. Why had she seen him outside her hotel room window? Had that been pure coincidence?

Cassandra was not allowed time to continue her thought process because she was ushered into a practice room where at least fifty other dancers were warming up or stretching, either laid out on the wooden floor or pressed up against the barre studying their forms in the ceiling-to-floor mirrors. No one really paid any attention to her and she was glad of it. Her outfit was out of place, being a baggy shirt and what she referred to as "diaper shorts" over tights that ended at the ankle.

_Yep, I'm the poor relation from the country. Literally._

"Cassandra?" Reflected in the mirror was an attractive man who also had an accent. _What was that? German? Russian, perhaps? He _tapped her on her shoulder. She turned and smiled.

"What gave me away?" He chuckled.

"My name is Val. I will be your dance partner."

* * *

The general manager of Gotham Hall sat in his office and looked up when there was a knock on his door.

"Hey, thanks, man, for helping my cousin out. It's her first time in the city and I wanted to give her a little boost. Something to encourage her, you know."

The manager stood and shook the other man's hand.

"Not a problem. And it is really you doing us a favor. When our scheduled dancer suddenly backed out, we were left in a bind. It is a Godsend that your cousin is here, and has some rhythm, have you seen the lot we have had to choose from around here?" he asked, sitting back down. He gestured to the chair on the other side of his desk, across from him. "Have a seat."

"Oh, I can't stay. I have a few errands to run. Just wanted to come by and say 'thanks'."

"Not at all. It was an easy debt to repay. I like those best, I think—the easy ones." The other man laughed. "So I suppose we will see you at the event?" asked the manager.

The other man nodded and raised his hand. "At the event. Pleasure doing business with you."

"Likewise, Gabe" replied the manager. "Always a pleasure. See you Friday night."

Gabe rang up Oswald to let him know Cassandra would be around until at least the weekend. Enough time to allow him to formulate a plan. Oswald would be rid of Green by then and since Fish was no longer around, Gotham might be a place Cassandra could settle down in. Maybe even with him.

_Of course, that was crazy. Why would she ever want to be with me? _

Maybe because she had pleaded with him to stay with her. His heart fluttered like the wings of a hummingbird thinking back to that moment. He had been so close to staying.

The night he had abandoned her. That is the word she had used-"abandon". He did not see it that way. He saw it as the first step to accomplishing his plan to run Gotham and in the process make sure she had everything she needed. It was supposed to have been an easy exit. He had timed it perfectly; he would sneak out of the house around midnight, leaving her a letter and some cash for his lodgings from the sale of the SUV he had acquired earlier in the month.

He was walking through the back door of the kitchen with his hand on the doorknob, pulling the door shut when he heard the sound of padded footsteps.

"Pablo?" _Cassandra. You are supposed to be tucked safely away in your bed._

He turned and looked at her, the nightlights in the kitchen giving the room a golden glow. Her hair was up in a lazy knot on top of her head and was coming undone, falling around her face and down her neck in long ringlets. She wore a fitted white shirt and pajama bottoms that were slightly too big for her. They hung on her hips and there was just enough of a separation of fabric from the shirt and pants that he could catch a glimpse of her navel. He wondered what it would be like to kiss that bellybutton. Gratefully, she was also wearing a robe and absent-mindedly tied it closed.

"What are you doing? Where are you going? _Are you leaving?_' Her voice got a little louder with each question as she was becoming more fully awake.

"Ah, you are supposed to be in bed," he said, coming back into the kitchen and shutting the door behind him.

"What's this?" She plucked the envelope off the table as he had tried to grab it at the same time.

"There is . . . it's just . . ." He rubbed the back of his neck as she pulled out the dollar bills. "I wanted to be sure to pay my rent and repay you for your kindness. I do not forget a kindness done. I will not forget."

"You sound like you are disappearing off the face of the earth," she laughed nervously. He had offered up an awkward smile and then stared at the floor without responding. "This money . . . you did so much around the farm . . ."

He grinned. "No, I didn't. Truly not enough by any means. It is only fair . . ." Oswald's words trailed off as she opened the letter. He approached and closed the letter on its crease before she could read it. "Why don't you save that for later." It was more statement than request.

"What is going on?" she asked. Oswald shook his head and with both hands rubbed his nose and the inside corners of his eyes. "I really have stayed here too long, and I need to get back to . . ." He stopped short of saying Gotham. "Mother."

"In the middle of the night?" She made that stance she makes whenever she disagreed with or was annoyed by something. It involved turning out her right leg while simultaneously sticking out her left hip with a slight bounce. Even when he hated to see her do that—he knew what was coming—he loved to see her do that. It meant he was going to have to put up a good argument, because she would call him out.

This was why he had chosen to leave in the middle of the night. She would be asleep and unable to offer any arguments. This is what he had been afraid of—she would convince him he should at least leave during daylight.

And he would stay.

Then she would convince him he should think on it some more and wait another day.

And he would stay.

Then she would tell him he should not leave at all.

And he would not.

He was shaking because he knew he was in danger of doing exactly what she said. And because he wanted her to say it. And because he would die if she didn't.

He could not let her win this round. Not this argument. Not this time. Sadly, he knew no matter how close she would come to it, he would be the victor. He was not sure who he was more sad for.

"Why do you have to leave _now_? Or at all? You should at least wait until it's light outside. You might encounter bandits." _Oh, my gosh, she is going to make me laugh_.

"Bandits?" _I eat bandits for breakfast. Well, not literally—just their sandwiches._

"Well, wherever you are going, it can't be safe to show up there in the dark."

"I know you are afraid of the dark, Cassandra," he said gently, as he gestured to the nightlights that were on in the kitchen and beamed in other parts of the house. "But I'm not. There is a matter I must attend to elsewhere, and I truly must get home to Mother."

"Well, maybe I could go with you." He had not expected that. "Sorry. I'm jumping ahead of myself. Of course, you don't want that. If you did, you wouldn't be sneaking out of the house in the middle of the night. Besides, I cannot leave my uncle. I don't know what I was thinking. Is there a rewind button on this?"

If penguins could fly, he would have. He approached her slowly instead. "I'm glad there is not a rewind button. I . . . I know you can't leave, and it is better that you are here rather than where I'm going . . ."

"Which is where?" she asked. He choked on his words.

"It's better that . . ." he began.

"I'm tired of you making all the decisions without me," she interrupted.

"But this doesn't concern you," he said, confused.

"Wow, okay. I just thought . . ."

"You thought what?" He saw a glare form in her eyes.

"I thought maybe . . ." she started. "I thought maybe you might want to stay here . . . with me . . . because I . . ." She shook her head and looked down at the paper in her hand. He waited, but she didn't say anything else, so he spoke instead.

"I cannot stay, and I only have your welfare in mind."

Besides, Mother would hate her, and the hatred that he occasionally felt for his Mother sprung up, but only briefly. It quickly dissipated. She was after all the only woman who had ever loved him, the only woman he could ever trust—even though, granted, he did not tell her _everything_.

Cassandra still did not answer or look up at him. He allowed himself to drown in that aroma of gardenia. He was so busy admiring her face and wondering what it would be like to grasp a handful of her hair that it took him a moment to realize she had not answered him because she was reading his letter.

He suddenly knew what it felt like to be one of Medusa's statues. He was rooted to the spot and barely breathing. This was another reason why he did not want to be around when she read the letter. Just in case she laughed.

It was like that day on the steps of the high school when he had asked his crush Allison to the prom and she had laughed at him. They had all laughed at him. Would Cassandra would laugh at him too? He looked at her with pleading in his eyes. _Please don't_. He found feeling in his legs and started to back away, waiting for the inevitable.

But it did not come. She did not laugh at him.

"You really feel this way—think this way about me?" Oswald nodded his head. If there had been anymore light in the room, she would have seen that he had turned beet red.

"I'm relieved," she said, letting out a breath and grinning. He turned his head to listen better. Surely he had misheard her.

"What?" he whispered.

"When you showed up, all disheveled and dirty, I did not know what to think. I even purposely stayed away from you for the first couple of days, but truth be told, I was smitten the moment I saw your face, regardless of it being covered in grim. You are a breath of fresh air, and I know that's a cliché, but it's true. Which means it's clichéd for a reason. I adore you. You are intelligent, clever, kind, and if you leave me now, it's going to feel like death. Please don't leave." She spoke quickly. Oswald opened his mouth, but nothing came out, so Cassandra went on.

"That surprised look you get on occasion is so endearing to me—it's so . . ." She struggled for the right word. "Honest." He was pretty sure he was dreaming at this point—he had not woken up to leave and was still in bed. He was positive.

"I understand you need to take care of your mom . . ." She had moved closer to him. "You know I can relate to that, so why don't you just bring her here?" She had surprised him again. He had lost his ability to think ahead. He had not expected that chess move.

He could just take her. He would just grab her and take her away from here, to Gotham. To hell with the farm, and to hell with her uncle, and to hell with his mother. She would be his and he would never be able to think straight again for the rest of his life he was sure of it.

_Why, oh why, oh why had he not left a mere minute sooner?_

He looked down into that face, that beautiful face—the eyes he got lost in, the mouth he wanted to get lost in . . .

"There is another matter I have to attend to and it would be impossible for me to stay here and accomplish it," he barely got the words out. Gotham was his home. This place is not his home. She is not his home.

She is not his.

She is not.

She is.

He was going to leave and that was final. He had a mission to save Gotham. Only he could do it. Gotham was his home, his empire. He was going to run it and everyone there would respect him, and fear him, and love him.

"But . . . what you wrote in your letter . . ." she looked back up at him, questioningly. He placed his hands on her shoulders.

"It true. Everything I wrote in that letter is true." He closed his eyes and leaned forward until they were forehead to forehead. This was torture. He should have just never written the letter to begin with. He was getting weak. This was unacceptable.

"Please don't go," she whispered. _Stay strong, Oswald_.

Oswald whimpered. "I will pass this way again. I give you my word." _I am starting to slip. If I do not leave right now . . . in a minute . . . in just a few more minutes, I am never going to leave._

He backed away from her. His heart hurt worse than his leg did. It hurt worse that any taunting or beating he had ever received.

"So you are just abandoning me." He had barely heard her.

"You are an _unwanted distraction_!" he hissed, on the verge of yelling. The look on her face crushed him even further and he chastised himself for being so blunt, and at the same time, so cruel. She did not deserve that and it had not come out how he had meant it.

He approached her quickly. "I didn't mean . . . it came out wrong . . ."

The tears he saw brimming within her eyes did it. It was here, Oswald could later pinpoint the exact moment, that his brain shut off. He did what he had never done in his life, what he had absolutely no experience doing—running on pure instinct and adrenaline.

He kissed her.

He threw the duffel bag to the floor and wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close, and without hesitation, planted his lips on hers and pressed. _Pressed hard_.

He had never done that before and now everything was much worse. He had gotten a taste of what he had been missing. It was a taste he would never be able to wash from his mouth.

Or his memory.

As suddenly as he had reached for her, he released her, swept up the duffel bag and left, slamming the door behind him. He had heard her call his name. Well, not his name—his alias.

He trudged alongside the frontage road and could barely see in front of him on account of the blurring from his own tears. Part of him wanted her to run after him, but she had better not because it would only make him mad, and incredibly ecstatic.

_It's official_, he thought. _I am completely insane_.

Their untimely interlude had caused him to miss the first bus to Gotham and he would have to wait on the next one. He would walk to the next bus stop. He did not want to stay here. When he got to it—after what seemed like a lifetime later—he curled up behind a bush in the dirt, using the duffel bag as a pillow and cried himself to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

Mr. Jeb Green had never considered himself an honest man and there was no need to start behaving as one now. He never thought of himself as an intellectual man, although he was a whiz with figures, and that did not just include the mathematical kind. He did believe he was quite the charmer and lady-killer. He never had a problem luring the female of the species to himself, which was why it was so puzzling that Cassandra never took him up on his offer of marriage. Most of the broads he knew would have jumped at the chance to get hitched to him.

He really did not like it that she had said no.

He also really did not like it that she had burned down the buildings on his property.

He also did not like it that his man parts had been out of commission for a span of a few days due to her swift and incredibly painful kick to his groin.

He sat in a bar watching the clientele—a collection of Gotham's finest, said no one, ever. Waitresses who had seen their best years behind them, and it probably was no doubt their behinds that had been the best thing about them, sashayed among the tanked-up customers. Middle-aged men retreated to the comfort of the booths, squeezing their bellies nearly into halves trying to fit in; and then there were the teenage boys—who were not supposed to be there in the first place—that claimed the pool tables; and a couple of old fellas—probably homeless—perched on the stools that surrounded the bar. He sat at a table in a corner, studying them all.

He needed a couple of strong arms to help him with a little meeting he wanted to set up, sort of a reunion. Jeb had acquainted himself with the bartender and was merely waiting to see which interested fishes would take a bite. He did not have to wait long. A giant of a black man sat down at his table and Jeb proceeded to tell him the plan. They shook hands and the black man walked away.

_One down, one to go_, thought Jeb. _Someone a little less intimidating._

The door to the bar opened, creating a backdraft of cigarette smoke and Jeb glanced in that direction. A man, maybe in his late thirties with dark hair and a medium build, walked in and ordered something from the bar before taking a seat at the table beside Jeb. A moment later, one of the waitresses who had looked like she had seen the inside of one too many red hair-coloring bottles, pranced over to deliver the newcomer his drink.

"Here ya go, handsome." She leaned over just enough to give him and anyone within viewing area a peek down her blouse.

_Needs ironing_, thought Jeb, not referring to the blouse.

The man flirted a moment with the waitress as if she were Miss Universe.

_Very smooth_, Jeb nodded in admiration. _Wonder if he could be that slick with the younger women._

"The trick is to really listen to them, take an interest in each one, focusing on the remarkable human being that she is, unique and extraordinary." The man spoke in Jeb's direction.

Jeb twisted in his chair to look behind him.

"Are you speaking to me?" he asked the man, turning back around. The man leaned forward and Jeb could see his features better, lit up by the low-hanging lamps. He had an exotic look about him. _Italian?_ _Mediterranean, maybe_?

"Name is Jason Lennon." He held out his hand.

_Well the name is certainly not exotic._

Jeb considered it odd that this man would strike up a conversation out of the blue with a stranger—_but then we lookers tend to stick together._

"Nice to meet you," remarked Jeb. "Meeting someone?" The man laughed.

"I'm always meeting someone," he smiled.

"Aren't we all," Jeb chuckled. "Aren't we all." Jason gestured toward Jeb.

"You meeting someone?"

"Eventually-not tonight. Tomorrow night. But herein lies the problem, Jason," he propped his elbows on the table and clasped his hands in front of him. "The flower I have my eye on does not want anything to do with me. No matter everything I have tried to offer her. I have to make her see that she needs me. She is terribly ungrateful. To sound like every country song: she done did me wrong."

Jason laughed. "I understand exactly what you mean. We offer, we give, we love to the death. We try to make things perfect, and still she does not see."

"Well, then, you realize my dilemma, Jason." Jason narrowed his eyes and tilted his head. Jeb shrugged as if it was the most obvious thing in the world to understand. "I just want to talk to her, set up a romantic spot, sweep her off her feet, and whisk her away. But if she sees me coming . . . well then . . ." He shook his head and sat back waiting for the fish to take the bait.

"You are a romantic, Jeb," said Jason, after a sip of his drink. He wiped his mouth with a napkin and sat the drink back on the table. "Maybe she just needs some gentle persuasion." The bar door opened and a svelte blonde-haired female walked in, looking out of place and nervously glancing around the room.

"Do you think you could help me with that, Jason? Do you think you could help me arrange a meeting with my lady? I would be willing to make it worth your while." Jeb sat forward again, but Jason's attention was on the woman who was still lingering in the doorway.

"No need, my friend. Keep your money. This is for love, and you cannot put a price on love." Jason's eyes sparkled as he watched the blonde. "But it would have to be for another time. I have plans tonight."

"Of course, of course," Jeb said. "It would not be until late tomorrow evening." Jason managed to tear his eyes away from the blonde.

"To love, then," he said, raising his glass to Jeb. Jeb clicked his against the one Jason had outstretched.

"To love." _And revenge. Revenge was good too._


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

It had gotten much colder since Jeb had been in the bar but the vehicle he was thrown into was quite cozy. If only he could breathe through the hood that covered his face. His protests were welcomed with a quick fist to his jaw, sending his head slamming into something solid.

He was not sure how long he had been out, but when he came to, he was hauled up and made to start walking, tripping as he attempted to keep steady. His hands were bound and he still wore the hood. His head felt like a log that had just gotten axed down the center.

"I can't see where I'm going." No one offered him an explanation. Nervous perspiration that clung against his hair and the binding fabric caused his forehead to itch. He hoped these new hair plugs were waterproof, as advertised.

"W-w-what is this? W-what's going on?" he blubbered. He thought he could hear music. His questions were met with a shove, and a vise-like grip on his upper arm kept him from attempting escape. He went through the list of women that he had "dated" and could not recall any of them mentioning a husband. Not that having this foreknowledge would have deterred him; he just did not recall it coming up. "Who are you? W-where are you taking me?"

"Keep going. You'll find out soon enough," came the male voice. The positioning of the voice told him that the person escorting him was rather tall. He already knew he was strong. The sound of the music gradually increased until he knew he was in the same room—it was a violin. He nearly lost his balance when he was roughly pushed into a chair.

"Make yourself at home," said the voice again, removing the hood with a flourish.

_Oh, shi-_! Jeb thought to himself as he recognized the face of the man that sat across the table from him. _What was that freak's name?_ _Peter? Paddy? _

_Pablo! _

He subconsciously reached for the scar on his torso, but he could not because of the ties that bound his wrists. Oswald smiled at him, the picture of calm madness.

"It is so nice that you could join me this fine evening," he said. "On today's menu—_fish_!"

The chef walked out and held a plate under Oswald's nose and lifted the silver lid. Steam—fragranced with rosemary, orange, and tuna—warmed Oswald's face. Jeb thought he looked like the devil just stepped out of hell.

Oswald closed his eyes and inhaled the scent. He sighed with satisfaction and nodded his head. "My favorite. Did you realize how many different recipes there were for tuna fillet?" he remarked giddily, then looked at Jeb with feigned remorse as the chef placed the meal on the table in front of Oswald.

"I regret that we have none to offer you, but perhaps . . . oh, now where are my manners. We have not officially met." He pushed back his chair and stood. "I am Oswald Cobblepot," he said, clutching his lapels and rocking up onto his toes. He offered Jeb his hand to shake, only to be met with a hostile glare.

"No?" Oswald snickered, returning to his seat. "I certainly do wish that our spontaneous reunion could have been under better circumstances. _Really_." He said that last word with venom in his voice. "You might remember me better by my alias-Pablo."

"I remember you. You threatened me with fork. I have the marks to prove it." Jeb twisted to get a good look at the man who was still standing beside him, the one who had escorted him in. "This man is crazy. He's violent. Do you realize the kind of man you are working for?" Gabe shrugged.

"Ah, violence never bothered me much. I have found it is good for my pent-up aggression. Cheaper than a psychiatrist too, am I right? Besides, the boss offers a great dental plan."

"Well, I do like to maintain the good health of all my employee's teeth," agreed Oswald. "It's the least I could do."

"It's appreciated, Boss."

"You're welcome."

"You're both crazy." This observation was met with a slap upside Jeb's temple.

"Hey!" complained Gabe. "No need to be rude to your host." Oswald smirked and took a sip of his white Bordeaux.

"I probably don't have to tell you why you are here, _do I, Jeb_? I can call you that, correct?" Oswald chuckled at his inside joke, remembering the look of fear on Mr. Green's face the last time he had asked him a similar question.

"What do you plan to do?" Jeb asked him. Oswald set his drink back down on the table.

"Now, don't tell me you forgot," he sighed dramatically. "That hurts my feelings, Jeb. _Oh, come on_—you remember," Oswald leaned forward abruptly, scooping up the cutlery that was on either side of his plate, and spoke to him as if they were old college buddies. "There was something about harassing Cassandra, something about me telling you not to, and something about gutting you like a fish if you did. Not ringing a bell?" He tapped the side of his wine glass repetitively and with much glee.

Jeb had lost his voice. He knew there was a way out of this, he just had not been able to pinpoint it yet. He only managed to indicate "no" with a twist of his head. He was lying and he knew the deranged man in front of him knew he was lying.

"Huh." Oswald sat back and took a bite of his tuna. "How's that_ hot_ property of yours, Jeb? Such a comfortable home, that house. Oh, no, wait—that's right. It burned to the ground." Oswald shook his head. "Oxygen tanks can be so sensitive."

"W-what do you know about _that_?" Jeb snarled, careful not to lose his cool. He could feel the sweat tickling its way down the side of his face. He realized he no longer needed a bathroom break as he had just relieved himself, and evidence of that was seeping through his trousers. His heart was thudding against his ribcage—a desperate criminal trapped in an impermeable jail. "Did you have something to do with it?"

"I wish!" Oswald exclaimed. "That Cassandra—looks _and_ brains! She _is _quite the catch!"

"Oh? You caught her?" asked Jeb. Oswald's face darkened and he threw his napkin on top of his plate. "Gabe, please show our guest to the meat locker." He addressed Jeb. "There is a special on the menu just for you."

"S-s-shouldn't you finish your meal first?" stuttered Jeb. He was hoisted out of his seat and escorted into a white room adorned with pig and cow carcasses, all skinned—red and white meat hanging down on hooks like a display of gruesome Christmas ornaments.

"Up you go," sang Oswald, his breath coming out in a puff of fog in the chilly air. "Looks like you had a little accident."

"Wait! I know something!" Jeb had been shoved to the tile floor while his ankles where tied together. He had tried to kick Gabe off, but it did no good. Jeb was dragged across the floor by a pulley system, collecting bone splinters and congealed fluids on his face along the way. He was lifted and suspended by his feet, his eyes parallel to the ice cold eyes of Oswald Cobblepot. "If you kill me, you will never find out what I have planned for Cassandra!" Oswald waited a beat.

"What. Do. You. Mean?" He clenched his jaw, and started playing with his knife, opening and closing it. _Click. Click._

The blood rushed to Jeb's head quickly, compounding the headache that was already in full-blown pain mode. "I won't tell you. You kill me and I won't tell you."

"Well, obviously." Oswald paused. "You just made a mistake, Jeb. I was going to kill you quickly, but now, _now_, Jeb—and I am feeling quite inspired standing in this room—_now _I am going to have to tenderize you to make you pliable. We will see what happens after that." He nodded to Gabe.

"Wait!" Jeb yelled again. "If I tell you, will you let me go? I promise I will leave Gotham and you will never hear from me again. Not you. Not Cassandra."

"Because you were _so eager_ to stay away from her the first time," said Oswald. "Why should I trust you?"

"Because this time I will do it! I-I-I've learned my lesson!"

"You will leave Gotham?"

"Yes."

"And stay away from Cassandra?" Jeb did not answer right away. Oswald approached him.

"_And stay away from Cassandra_?" he reiterated rather loudly.

"Of course."

Oswald shrugged and replied matter-of-factly, "Sure, why not?' Gabe shot him a curious look.

"Let me down first," Jeb prodded.

"Not a chance," replied Oswald. "Well, I'm waiting. What bit of information are you _dying_ to divulge?" he said when Jeb did not continue. "Gabe?" He looked to his right-hand man who hit Jeb with a chain-wrapped fist. A couple of teeth fell out.

"Let me know when he's ready to talk," Oswald said and started to limp away. "Let him keep a few of his teeth so that he _can_."

"Sure thing, Boss!"

"Wait!" Jeb cried. Oswald slumped.

"I am becoming extremely annoyed by your indecisiveness," he said as he shuffled back to the doomed man. "Tell me what I want to know."

"Two guys. Tomorrow night. They are going to grab her for me. After the Wayne benefit. A couple of blocks down from the Hall."

"And take her where?" Oswald had the man by his hair. Jeb laughed, accidently spitting blood onto Oswald's face. Oswald slowly wiped it off using his pocket-handkerchief.

"Home Sweet Home," Jeb gurgled.

"The farm. How apropos," remarked Oswald, folding the handkerchief and handing it to Gabe.

"You gonna let me down?" Jeb squirmed on the hook, causing the iron to clank together. He looked like a fish on display at an early morning farmer's market. Oswald patted him and gave him a cold grin.

"Now, Jeb, _what_ do _you _think?" he sneered.

Jeb heard the c_lick _before he saw the blade. It cut deep first within his torso, a quick upward thrust, and then sliced apart his throat before he could even scream. There was an initial spurt from his jugular before the blood started to drain from his neck, joined by the blood from his gut, creeping its way down his cheeks, and into his ears. He fought in vain to free himself from his bindings while below a crimson stream channeled itself into a drain that led to the sewers. He was lowered a couple feet, still upside down, and caught a glimpse of Oswald's shiny leather wingtips.

Then Mr. Jeb Green had the good sense to die.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Oswald suspected that Cassandra knew she was being watched. It was just something in her demeanor—a sudden pause when walking, a brief glance over her shoulder, that frown that he missed. Oswald wanted to reassure her and tell her she was not being paranoid.

There was no way she could have known that she was in danger and that Oswald had placed a detail on her right after his conference with Jeb the day before. He watched her himself as well, breaking away several times from the club to stand in front of Gotham Hall or The Pinkney Inn. He had someone on the inside watching her every move and the movements of anyone around her, just in case Jeb had not been completely forthcoming.

Oswald was not sure how he was going to reveal himself to her or if he was even going to do that. In Gotham, anyone connected to him was fair game to his enemies. He thought of Maroni and Fish. They both wanted to see him dead, and he was sure they would use any means to get to him, although it had been a while since anyone had heard from Fish. His phone rang and he dug it out of his coat breast pocket.

"Yeah?" he asked, answering it.

"The Ogilvy's have received their theater tickets and will be attending tonight," said Gabe.

"That's excellent. Is everything else ready?"

"I have what you asked for, and arranged the other thing."

"Good." Oswald hung up the phone and fit it back into his pocket. He did not want to leave his spot on the sidewalk, but it was time to prepare for tonight's event.

He was killing two birds with one stone—he would be seen at the Wayne fundraiser, donating money to a worthy cause and no doubt gaining the approval of the upper crust, and he would be near enough to Cassandra to reach out and protect her himself, and he was expecting it to come to that. He knew Gabe was much bigger and stronger than he was, but Oswald was clever and determined, not to mention personally invested.

Upon arriving at Gotham Hall, they were ushered into a darkened ballroom backlit with deep purples and blues and accented by iridescent birch trees standing as solitary guards around the room. Glittery silver orbs were suspended from the ceiling and kept watch over dining tables swathed in silver, white, and azure. Each wall displayed a massive flat screen and at one end of the ballroom, a stage had been assembled and skirted with clear gems.

The place was a winter wonderland. Oswald approved.

He was, however, disappointed to learn that seafood was not on the menu and he turned his nose up at ingesting poultry, so he had to settle for the steak.

In addition to the numerous speakers and presentations throughout the meal, there was also varying amounts of entertainment. Oswald was particularly interested in the "sawing someone in half" magic trick, and he also jotted down the names of some of the singers he hope to book at his club. He paid particular attention to the dancers, and had to clutch the edge of the table in order to keep himself from climbing over it when he saw Cassandra walk on stage and take a seat on a white rectangle box.

_At last!_

He immediately hated the man with her. The man she was to dance with had laid this head in her lap before the routine started and she smiled down at him. Oswald would have fingered the knife in his pocket, but he did not trust himself to let go of the table.

The music was slow and sad, as if the notes themselves were weeping. Cassandra was barefoot and dressed in a modest lavender outfit with sheer layers that flowed like sheets on a breezy day. Her hair was partially drawn up, away from her face, while the rest cascaded down her back in shiny curls that Oswald wanted to get his hands caught in.

Each movement reminded him of his time with her. An embrace. A caress to her shoulder. Her dance partner running down the platform stairs as she watched him leave, only to be caught by him as she fell into his arms. A moment where she reached out toward the audience as if she were desperate to capture something she could not touch. Her running her fingers through the man's hair. The tips of their fingers touching briefly before they parted.

After a while, Oswald did not hear the click of the utensils upon china, or the occasional low murmur from someone nearby, or the rattle of ice in crystal glasses, or even the music itself. He heard nothing but his own blood pumping through his veins and saw nothing and no one else but Cassandra. _His_ Cassandra.

Suddenly it was over. People were applauding. She was leaving. _She was gone!_

He panicked. _No! Wait!_

His phone rang and he fumbled to retrieve it.

"She is okay, Boss. I've got an eye on her." Oswald whipped his head around to the chair Gabe had vacated sometime during the dance. He was tense and wanted to get to Cassandra himself, at least to some place he could _see_ her, but he had to wait until Gabe told him which door she was exiting and when.

"What is she doing?" Oswald asked, a little too much impatience in his voice. He was aware that he sounded like an obsessed love-struck teenager. To distract himself, he immediately began chewing on the skin around his fingernails. A contortionist was onstage now with calliope music accompanying his performance so Oswald retreated to a far corner so he could hear Gabe better.

"She is gathering up her things. There is a group of them talking about going to celebrate somewhere." Oswald held his breath and waited for the verdict. "She has turned them down, but she will be walking with them for a distance." Oswald exhaled sharply. At least she would not be alone, and he still had someone watching.

"Okay, I am on my way out. Follow at a distance. Make sure they don't see you." A few seconds later, right as Oswald exited the front of the building, Gabe called again.

"Boss, she has turned around. She is heading back toward the Hall. The man who danced with her is with her—it's just the two of them. Uh oh . . . a grey unmarked van has just pulled up in the alley _beside the Hall_ . . ." Gabe's voice trailed off, but Oswald could hear scuffling.

Ignoring the tremendous pain in his leg, he ran around the corner of the building and saw a dark-haired man of medium build try to force Cassandra into the back of the vehicle. He had placed a rag over her face. Oswald would have found the difficulty she was giving the man comical if the situation had not been so dire.

Her dance partner took a swing at a black man, missing and receiving an uppercut to his chin sending him sprawling motionless to the concrete. Gabe tapped the black man on the shoulder and then proceeded to bloody his nose.

The black man wondered who the large man was and why he was wearing a gas mask, one that covered only half his face. It dawned on him when he inhaled a shimmering powdery substance and passed out. Oswald and a second associate, a statuesque dark-skinned female, were also wearing masks.

Cassandra made eye contact with Oswald above the rag covering her nose. He suspected the cloth was saturated in chloroform and flung the remaining power in the face of her assailant. Both her abductor and Cassandra started a slow descent to the ground.

"I won't let you fall," said Oswald as he caught Cassandra and lowered her almost reverently to the sidewalk. Her eyes flickered before she passed out, and he was nearly certain that she had recognized him, even behind the mask.

He wanted to study every feature of her face, her hair . . . but there was no time. He was not sure how long the effects of the powder would last and they needed to get off the streets before the event concluded and the crowd flowed out.

"Take him home, Fara, please," he said to his female associate, removing the mask and jutting his chin in the direction of Cassandra's dance partner. _He had tried to defend her; therefore, I will reward him by not killing him_.

_At least not tonight_, he scowled. "Leave the other two; I will reunite with them another time."

The woman pickpocketed the wallets from the two goons lying on the sidewalk and then scooped up the unconscious dancer, throwing him over her shoulder like a feather boa. Oswald never ceased to be amazed by her strength.

He looked up at Gabe. "Help me lift her into the van. Looks like we have our getaway vehicle. We will take her home." Gabe looked puzzled.

"To your apartment? Your mom . . ." They lifted her and placed her on the floor of the van, Oswald crawling in after her. The would-be kidnappers had left the keys in the ignition. The van was running.

He shook his head. "My other nest. The lounge." Oswald had arrived at the conclusion that it would not look very virtuous for two men to carry an incapacitated woman through a hotel lobby, and he did not want to risk these men seizing her from her room once the toxin ran its course.

_How will she react when she sees me?_

Oswald gently stroked Cassandra's hair and traced her cheekbone with his thumb, cradling her upper body in his lap as if she was a baby. It was hurting his knee to sit like this, but he decided to grit and bear it. He thought he would burst with happiness from seeing her again, being this close, and being able to touch her once more. If he had been a child's stuffed doll, he would have split at the seams.

An overwhelming desire to keep her from all harm possessed him. He vowed no cruelty would come to her from anyone, including himself.

_I would not hurt her._ The idea was preposterous to him._ I learned from my mistake._

When he was a child, he had accidently killed one his favorite birds after it had pecked him. It was a devastating and frightening loss for him, and he had vowed to be more careful with his rage, especially when it was directed toward those he actually loved, which were few.

If she no longer sought his affections—if he had not imagined her tenderness toward him to begin with—Oswald would simply rechannel his displeasure toward someone truly deserving. Luckily, Gotham never disappointed with its abundance of nominees. He briefly reconsidered disposing of her dance associate, but dashed the notion away.

Oswald would remain a gentleman—what his mother had _always_ told him he was—not a _cad_ like the recently deceased Mr. Green. Cassandra and her uncle were the only people he could recall who had shown him any _true_ amount of friendship or empathy, without malice or the want of favors. It was a kindness he was content to repay for the rest of his life. No matter what, he would continue to be her friend—kill for her if necessary, which was _his _definition of "friends with benefits".

He buried his face in her neck, losing himself within the familiar floral scent and warming his nose against her skin.

In a different part of Gotham, right outside a movie theater, a couple had just been shot to death.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Oswald took the staff elevator with Gabe to the second floor of Oswald's and laid Cassandra on the couch in his office. He placed a pillow under her head, sat in the matching leather chair across from her, then thought better of it, got up, removed the pillow, and sat back down. He hesitated, then got to his feet again, placing two pillows under her head and sat back down. He leaned forward, resting his arms on his legs, and began tearing off the tips of his paper-thin fingernails one-by-one and letting them drop to the Oriental rug.

He had lit a fire in the hearth, in case she was cold and turned on just a few of the Pinkney lamps that stood atop his collection of ornate mahogany furniture. Oswald had gotten rid of the tacky reds, replacing the scheme of the entire club with cool blues and purples. It was stylish and more in line with the class of clientele that he wanted to attract as opposed to the whorehouse-meets-cheap-burlesque theme of which Fish had preferred. Besides, the new colors calmed him—helped him to stay levelheaded when blowing someone's brain out or slashing open a throat.

Cassandra stirred and grabbed at an invisible object on her face before sitting up sharply. He was immediately by her side, down on one knee, the other one throbbing as he knelt at the couch. He had rehearsed what he was going to say, but found himself at a sudden loss for words. This was quite distressing because he prided himself so much on his vocabulary. He did manage to choke out some reassurance, "It's okay, I've got y—"

Her eyes were wide, and Oswald saw when her brain finally processed what she was seeing.

"Pablo!" she cried, throwing her arms around his neck, and dissolving into tears.

This was such a different greeting than the one Mother had given him. She had all but ignored him, _was not even going to open the door to him_, and had been more concerned that his affections were being shared with another woman than if he were dead or alive, Cassandra seemed glad—dare he hope _relieved_—to see him.

He gritted his teeth as she ferociously pulled him toward her, the motion intensifying the pain in his leg, and he squeezed his eyes shut from the agony. "I _knew_ it was you!" She held on to him so tightly that he could hardly breathe.

_That's all right. If I am going to die, this is the way to do it._

"Shhh . . . shhh . . ." he stroked her back and twirled the ends of her hair around his fingers. "You're safe now. I've got you." He began to rock her—one reason to comfort her, another to prolong him holding her, and the last to adjust his chest so he could take in some air. "What do you mean you 'knew it was me'?" She pulled away to look at him, her hands lingering on his biceps. He removed his pocket-handkerchief and handed it to her then placed his hand back at her waist. He had wanted to wipe the tears away himself, but he was just not sure what to do since she had already had a man place a piece on cloth on her face already this evening.

Muffled through the paisley silk fabric she said, "I saw you at the hotel, from the window in my room. I ran after you, but I couldn't find you. _I couldn't find—_" A fresh bout of tears spilled from her eyes and Oswald's stomach twisted. This time it was he who drew her near to him.

"I'm sorry," he whispered into her ear. _When was the last time he had said _that _and meant it? _She acknowledged his words by nodding and caressing the back of his head.

"Are you comfortable like that?" she asked through her sniffles, referring to his position on the floor. She felt him shake his head "no" and she pulled him up onto the couch without letting him go. He clenched his jaw to keep from hissing as his leg straightened out.

They sat like that without speaking. Oswald was afraid to move or say anything. He wanted to enjoy the scent of her, the tickle of her hair on his nose and cheek, the swell of her bosom against his chest, and the odd feeling of security he felt in her arms.

_I thought I was the one protecting you. _He closed his eyes._ Maybe it went both ways. _He swallowed hard and remembered those times she had caught him when he had started to fall.

"I've missed you so much," she whispered, pulling back to look at him. He drank in her appearance. She cupped his face with her right hand and he leaned into her touch, closing his eyes. His fingers played with the fabric that encased her waist.

"You have no idea, truly, how I have longed for your company," Oswald admitted. She traced the line of his jaw with her fingertips, sending shivers up Oswald's spine, and continued over his lips—where she lingered—and then up to his nose. His nose had always been a source of contention with him because it was apparently such a source of contention with everyone else. A lifetime of teasing followed him and his beak-like muzzle. Cassandra knew this.

Her light touch felt like angel's wings across his skin. Oswald felt her breath on his face and he peeked at her from behind his lashes.

_What is she doing? She . . . _

She _kissed_ his _nose._ The nose he considered so ugly and an embarrassment—she kissed it. She kissed the other side, s_lowly_, then continued to his cheek, the spot next to his ear . . .

"Pablo . . ." she whispered. He was brought reluctantly out of his happy haze.

He could not let this go on without her knowing his name. He wanted to hear her say it. "I have to tell you something." It came out more a croak that actual human words. He took her hands in his and held them at the crevice where their bodies met. She still had his handkerchief in one of her hands.

_She is going to leave me when I tell her._ She nodded her head, urging him to continue. He faltered a moment and then continued, "Those men who tried to kidnap you tonight were hired by Jeb to bring you to him."

"That bast—"she started.

"But he will not be bothering you anymore. I saw to that," he said proudly, unaware that he was puffing up like a peacock. She grinned.

"What did you do?"

"Oh, I just made him an offer he couldn't refuse," he shrugged.

"You know he took the farm?" Cassandra said. Oswald nodded before responding.

"I tried to intervene in that, to stop the foreclosure, but Jeb got in the way of that too, unbeknownst to me at the time." He kissed the top of her hands. "I am so very sorry, and please accept my deepest condolences on the death of your uncle. He was one of the best people I have ever known. " Oswald saw her eyes go glassy again.

"Thank you." He wanted to kiss the tears before they fell, or after they fell. It did not matter—he just wanted to kiss her and make the bad go away. Of course, he wanted to kiss her for other reasons as well. "How were you going to stop the foreclosure?"

"I-I had come into a little money upon returning back to Gotham, but an associate did not follow orders." She leaned forward and kissed him again, closer to his mouth. He was suddenly lightheaded. She stroked the side of his face.

"I don't know what to say. Why would you do that?"

_Because I love you. You are my friend. Marry me._

"Because I . . . I . . . I wanted to repay your kindness." She raised her eyebrows.

"Wow, that's a lot of kindness," she breathed.

"It would have only been fair." He grinned nervously. Cassandra sat there staring at him.

"Pablo . . ." He wanted to reach for her. He wanted her to plant more kisses on his face. He looked down and anxiously laughed before stealing a glance back toward her. Cassandra's head was tilted like a puppy's and the frown he wanted to nibble on appeared between her eyebrows.

"I heard the house and trailer burned down," he said. Her saw her tense.

"It was an accident."

Oswald nodded. "Yes, of course," he said. He really did not want to talk about the house, except to tell her "nice work". But he refrained. He wanted her to _want _to tell him she caused the explosion, the way he wanted to tell her his real name.

"It was investigated. That was the ruling," she said.

"I understand. No matter. Jeb certainly deserved it." Oswald's thumbs passed over her the inside of her wrists. Cassandra nodded.

"Yes, he did." She paused. "Did you know that he attacked me?" Oswald flinched and stopped moving his thumbs. "I managed to fight him off before he could . . . but . . ." She shook her head. "It was bad. No one was at home—a Friday night. They wanted to treat my uncle to a night out . . ." Oswald's face went red and he felt the flush from that heat spread throughout his whole body. "I managed to incapacitate him for a while. He couldn't walk for two weeks," she offered. There was pride in her voice, like a student who had just made a straight A's on her report card. He wished he could kill Jeb a second time.

_I should have taken her with me. I should have stayed with her. I should have delivered the money to the bank myself. I should have just killed Jeb earlier. I should have never, ever stopped at that farm._

He squeezed her hands, and could not shake that feeling of guilt that settled in his chest like indigestion. He took her face in his hands and made her look at him.

"Jeb had it coming to him." Oswald said through clenched teeth. "He will never bother you again, I give you my word."

"What did you _do_, Pablo?" He paused and closed his eyes.

"Okay, I've got something I _really_ need to tell you," he repeated, recapturing her hands. "I would be remiss if I delayed any longer."

"Me too," said Cassandra, tightening her grip. She took a deep breath. "I set the fire."

"My name is not Pablo," Oswald spat out.

"What?" she asked.

"I know," he responded.

"How did you know?" she asked.

"I came to a conclusion," he said pointedly.

"What is your name?" she inquired.

"Oswald. Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Cassandra was drawing a blank. She knew there were questions she ought to ask, she just did not know what they were at the moment. She stared at the man seated next to her, acutely aware of his thigh against hers. He was holding his breath. His eyes were wide. He was nervous. He was squeezing her hands.

So he had gone by an alias. Who was she to judge? She had just committed arson.

That was a _felony_.

All he had done was lie. Not noble, but not against the law either. What was he hiding?

She nodded slowly. "That's a regal name," she said. She felt the pressure on her hands ease off, but he did not let go and against all common sense—she was glad for that. Oswald exhaled slowly, "Thank you."

_Who was this man? _

He did not say anything else. She wondered if she had made a mistake coming to Gotham. She should have gone in the other direction. She was becoming wrapped up in him again.

Who was she kidding? She had never become unwrapped.

He studied her with those piercing eyes, his pupils dilated.

"Why . . ." she started. He rushed into his explanation.

"I made some foolish decisions guided by impatient ambition. Stoked the embers of some unsavory elements who wanted to see me 'swim with the fishes'." He chuckled. "My dilemma became a eucatastrophe, really, so the joke is on them, because I did swim. Literally. Away from Gotham. Then I stumbled across your farm, and that horrible trailer." She laughed.

He shrugged and returned the smile that Cassandra gave him before continuing. "I did not give my name because I did not want to be traced. I had only meant to stay a week, maybe two. But then I just did not want to leave." He looked down at their entwined hands. "I never wanted to leave," he whispered. He grinned bashfully at her. "They meant to harm me, but they could not get to me. I had to keep it that way until I was ready to return home."

"Who are _they_?" she asked him. He teetered on the edge of the couch.

"One person is the former owner of this club, and the other is my former boss. Technically, they are both former bosses."

Club. At least she knew she was in a club. "So you were _that_ bad of an employee that they would rather kill you than fire you?" Oswald chuckled. Cassandra was pleased to hear him laugh at her feeble attempt at a joke.

"They are not inclined to pay unemployment," he quipped. This time Cassandra laughed. She was beginning to understand what kind of world in which Oswald resided.

"I see," she said.

"Do you?" he asked eagerly. "I mean, I had hoped that you would. Now you understand why I could not bring you with me." Memories of their last conversation came to her mind.

"Oh, yes, that's right—the 'unwanted distraction'." The light went out in Oswald's eyes and his face fell. He removed his hands from hers and started twiddling his fingers. Cassandra felt her jaw tighten.

"Do you have _any idea _how that made me feel?" she continued. "It is much worse hearing something like that coming from a friend than from an enemy. At least you know what weapons to bring when confronted by someone you know hates you. I didn't even know I would have to bring a shield when with a friend." Oswald looked like he wanted to sink down into the couch.

"It . . . I only meant . . . _I had a plan!_" he looked at her with earnest. "_You were not part of that plan_. I allowed you to become a distraction and . . . and _I stayed longer than I should have_, and I was angry because I had lost focus. How could I fulfill my destiny while keeping you safe, keeping me safe—to get to where I wanted be? _I haven't even regained my focus completely! And I don't know if I ever will!_"

He looked back up at her, his eyes were moist.

"Even when you have not been here, _you have been here_."

He looked down at his hands and frowned. "I just had to figure out how to stay alive and how to make myself someone in this town. Show those who had ever looked down on me, laughed at me, that _they would regret it _and that I would fight back." He placed his head in his hands. "I can't think." He was shaking, and Cassandra reached out and placed her hands on his shoulders, trailing down his arms to his hands. She held them.

He looked as broken as her heart felt. She hurt, but she was beginning to understand her pain was not on the same level as his. Oswald had been broken, very nearly shredded, and the only person he had _truly_ ever had to put the pieces back together was ultimately _himself_—playing the combined part of both Frankenstein and his fiend.

She nodded. "Are you safe now?" she asked him, referring to his presence back in Gotham.

"Safer than I was," he said, regaining composure. "Though I am sure not entirely, not completely." He had stopped shaking, but had not dared to look back at her yet.

"Am I safe?" she whispered. Oswald paused and began stroking the insides of her wrists again. She tried to focus on his answer and not the sensation of that subtle massaging and the goose pimples that followed.

"Not entirely, not completely—if you stay here with me." He had spoken so softly, Cassandra had barely heard him. He cleared his throat. "I had made a vow to myself that I would not allow any harm to come to you, and I would rather die than break that vow. If that promise is ever broken, please know that in one form or another—I am dead."

A buzz from the desk intercom startled them both. Oswald reluctantly left the couch and answered it using the phone handset. She took this opportunity to glance around the office, her eyes having adjusted to the dim lighting. Something was gnawing at her, something that should be plain as the nose on her face . . . or Oswald's. Cassandra grinned to herself and looked at him; she was an avid fan of that feature. He awkwardly smiled at her and looked down, still holding the handset, and pretended to brush dirt from the rug with the tip of his shoe. His eyes were noticeably red.

She got up from the couch and started to walk around the room, trailing her fingers across the top of a table or stopping to take a closer look at a painting, pausing to admire his collection of books and the bric-a-brac placed around the office, all the while aware of Oswald's gaze upon her.

There was a phrase painted on one wall: "I am a man more sinned against than sinning." Shakespeare. _King Lear_. Remembering the stories Pablo . . . Oswald had recounted of being bullied, she agreed that it was a fitting sentiment.

Oswald. She had heard that name previously. She approached the desk where Oswald had just replaced the receiver. He rubbed his jaw, and Cassandra could actually hear the five-o'clock-shadow on his face as his fingers moved over his stubble. It inspired images of her scraping that new growth with her teeth.

She toyed with some of the scattered objects he had lying around—a letter opener, an antique ink holder &amp; quill, a gold-gilded book of poetry—Lord Byron, and then she saw his business cards in a silver holder. She picked one up. Oswald's was embossed in rich ebony on the pearl-white card, right above his full name and title. Oswald never took his eyes off her.

"I hope it is all right—I took the liberty of having Gabe fetch your belongings from the hotel. I was concerned for your well-being. Will you consider staying here tonight?"

_Oswald's? Huh. _She jutted out her left hip_. This is his club? He turned me away when I needed work._

She picked up the cardholder and carried it over to the fireplace—she liked to watch the blue and yellow flames dance together.

"Cassandra?"

Methodically she began flicking each card, one after the other, into the fire, punctuating each one's sacrifice with a word.

"_Not_." A card went in.

"_What_." Another card.

"_Oswald's_." Card.

"_Is_." Goodbye card.

"_Looking_." Card.

"_For_." She ran out of words before she ran out of cards and continued feeding them into the blaze. It made her feel better.

Cassandra could almost hear him swear in his head. She heard him move behind her, then felt his presence at her shoulder.

"It's not what I meant," he whispered. She could hear the desperation in his voice.

"It's just amazing to me how many of the things you say are also the things you don't mean," she said. She kept throwing the cards in until she ran out. He did not try to stop her.

Cassandra knew he was exhausted both mentally and emotionally, but so was she. He gingerly touched her shoulder, but when she did not turn to him, he put his hand down.

"Not that I can sing, so there is no loss _there_."

"Stop that. You _know _why I did not hire you. I wanted you to _go home_. When I saw you on the stage, I was overcome with a sudden dread that some form of misfortune would befall you. Little did I know that it had already come to pass." She did not say anything, just stared into the fire watching the paper crinkle and burn. He continued.

"Tomorrow morning, do as you please. Tonight I ask you to find safe lodging here and . . . and I will give you what I can to help you start again, wherever place you deem appropriate. I will call Gabe and have him bring up your bags. I will trouble you no further. Good night." He turned and walked away from her.

"Wait," Cassandra sighed. She was resigned to ending this miscommunication now.

Abruptly he stopped.

For all his impressive eloquence, she knew he sometimes got lost in his words when he was trying to articulate a thought or a feeling verbally and could not map himself out, sometimes wandering further away from where he wanted to be. She was not about to hold it against him. She couldn't. Most of the time, the prose and the poems were written on his face. She just needed to hear them. Or read them.

"No more secrets." She came up behind him and slipped her arms under his and wrapped them around his chest. His body relaxed and his head tipped forward. She heard him exhale and she tightened her grip. "No more misunderstandings." He covered her arms with his. She felt him nod.

_I could go to sleep like this_.

"I don't want you to leave me, but even if you decide you cannot stay, I will get your property back for you, just give me time," he whispered.

"Pablo," she almost said. "Oswald, I don't want the property. I am holding my home."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

The Monarch Theater had always been a majestic building, both inside and out. It had undergone changes throughout the years like someone's personality. During the jazz age, she boasted of her self-worth, decked out in champagne- and peach-colored finery with slick white marble and gold and silver accents. When war came, she played-down her extravagance by draping herself in red, white, and blue and offering the lobby to USO dances and as a care package collection center for our boys across the sea. The fifties and sixties saw the rise of bohemia and she redid her wardrobe to include bright colors and odd patterns.

Only a few years ago, she returned to more traditional, eloquent tastes with the hint of the unique, proving that this combination could yield a truce of shared beauty. The most impressive design she offered was the artificial sky above the seats in the theater itself. Patrons knew the entertainment was about to start when the blue firmament overhead gradually dissolved into a cotton-candy sunset streaked with orange and purple, and finally darkened into a velvety indigo sky wearing stars like diamonds. If viewers watched closely, they might be rewarded with a glimpse of a shooting meteor.

Mrs. Ogilvy had marveled at the ceiling and had grasped her date's arm when she saw the meteor graze across the faux sky. She made a wish and remarked how she was certain she had not entered a contest—that maybe they had won someone else's prize—but she did not care. She had called the theater and some bored pubescent male had told her if she had tickets, ma'am, they were good. He followed up with a big sigh to express how much he loved his job.

The evening had been lovely. They had splurged and gone out to eat before the show. She had not been to a restaurant in what seemed like ages.

They walked arm in arm down the street, not many people here tonight—something going on at Gotham Hall, and discussed taking the shortcut through the alley. The Wayne's had been murdered there recently, and the culprit had been caught—but still. It _was_ quicker to go this way than around the theater and down some of the other streets. She wanted to get home as soon as possible to check on Iggy who had been left with a sitter. The alley was silent and seemed deserted. They would take their chances.

It would not have mattered either way. The Ogilvy's had been pre-ordained not to make it home tonight.

_Pop._

The couple stopped walking and Mrs. Ogilvy looked up. She thought maybe a bulb from one of the streetlamps had blown out, but she could not see any indication of this. She felt something wet on her hand and saw dark liquid dripping from her fingers.

_My chest hurts. I'm too young to have a heart attack_.

She held up her hand to get a better look at it in the streetlight. It looked like blood. _That's odd_, she thought. _Where is _that_ coming from_? It was seeping through her sleeve and staining the fabric. She had been saving this blouse for a special occasion and now it is ruined!

_How am I going to get the blood out? My chest _really _hurts! I think I should sit down. Right here. In the middle of the street. _

Her date tried to keep her upright and it took a minute before it dawned on him that she had been shot. He went down with her to the ground to keep her from bumping her head and laid her back.

_Look at the pretty stars. My chest hurts so much! Iggy . . ._

She could hear the man beside her repeating her name, at least she thought he was saying her name, she wasn't hearing that well right now. Besides, she wanted to concentrate on the stars.

He pulled out his cellphone, but it was immediately blown out of his hand by a bullet. Some of his fingers still grasped the phone that now lay a few feet away from him on the pavement.

The attacker stepped out of the shadows and kept the gun pointed on the man beside Mrs. Ogilvy. He shook his head as he gazed down on his female victim. _What a waste_, he thought to himself, as he watched the life ooze out of her. He turned his attention back to the man and pressed the barrel of the gun against his forehead.

"What do you want? Take our money, jewelry . . . just let me get her an ambulance before it's too late." The gunman laughed.

"Look around you," he said indicating the area in which he sat. A pool of blood had already surrounded the man's knee from underneath the woman and continued to widen, his own blood created a puddle on his other side. "Just watch her bleed to death, because you are not going anywhere or calling anyone. It was never about your money or jewelry, although it will be taken from you both upon your deaths."

"Like the Wayne's . . ." whispered the man, stroking the hand of the woman beside him.

The shooter nodded. "Like the Wayne's."

"Did you kill them?"

"You ask too many questions," he answered. "Consider yourself as special as they were. You and this pretty one over there were specifically targeted to die."

"By who?" The shooter shook his head.

"There you go with your questions again." He motioned his gun in the direction of Mrs. Ogilvy. "Is she dead yet? I think she might be dead."

The other man leaned in to her to feel for her breath and a pulse. She had neither. He nodded his head and closed her eyes.

"Good. We're done here." The shooter aimed the gun at the man on the pavement and pulled the trigger. The man jerked back and landed in what was left of his brain. The assailant rummaged through the woman's purse, found her cellphone—it was an old and pink—and then took a picture of the murdered couple. He thought about sending it to the man who had hired him, but decided it would be better to meet in person as already planned. Maybe he could persuade him to pay him a little extra. If not, he would make him regret it. He doubted this couple would have anything of value in their pockets.

He arrived at an area under one of the bridges that connected Gotham to the mainland and was surprised to be greeted by a tall black woman. He handed her the phone all the while wondering if she tasted as sweet as she looked. He was definitely intimated by her, but he kind of liked that. Judging by her height and obvious well-toned physique, he thought it better not to come on too strong.

He decided he would ask her out for drinks after they concluded business and maybe they could conclude something else—something he considered a little more fun than shooting people. Forget trying to squeeze out any more money for the job, a piece of her was just as good as any extra cash.

Fara, however, did not like the idea of going out for drinks or the suggestion of other extracurricular activities. This could have fooled him because she had her arms around his neck. He realized too late that this had been a gambit. His fate had been sealed when he accepted the assignment.

The Gotham City Police Department would find his body washed up on shore a week later, his neck broken.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

The buzzer on his desk sounded again and Oswald waddled with Cassandra still wrapped around his chest to answer it. He relished every second of her holding on to him.

"She is on her way back now. She has taken care of the other matter," Gabe said, referring to Fara. Oswald hung up the phone and leaned back into Cassandra.

"We have some rooms," he told her. "None of them are being used. Just choose the one you like best. Gabe placed your bags in the one next to my office, but you can move, if you prefer."

"So this is like a hotel too?" Cassandra asked. Oswald wrinkled his face and turned a shade darker. He begrudgingly disengaged from Cassandra's grasp, turning to address her.

"Not exactly," he said. Ugh. He did not want to tell her this. "Some of the women who worked here were also engaged in the world's oldest profession, but not anymore. Probably one of the reasons I'm losing money, but I don't trade in skin."

The look on her face was dubious—he could see the gears in her head shifting, questioning the cleanliness of the rooms. "The beds are clean. Have been cleaned. They're clean," he offered, suppressing the urge to laugh. "I have some business to conduct, but I still wish to speak with you. That is, if you are not too tired. Of course, I understand if you are, should you select to retire. It has been quite the eventful evening."

_I'm rambling_, he thought.

He stopped suddenly at the door and just stood there looking at her, beaming. "I am the happiest I have been in a long time—if ever—if this is what happiness feels like. I'm not even sure." He turned to walk out, but stopped again. "Are you hungry? I can have the chef fix you something. The kitchen stays open quite late. I will let him know to expect your call."

_Rambling again. I sound like an idiot._

He hesitated once more and drummed his fingers on the edge of the door. "And, um, Cassandra?" She raised an eyebrow. "Try not to set anything on fire while I'm gone."

"What? You don't have any papers that need burning, ledgers that might be better off becoming ash?" She grinned. His eyes lit up.

Oswald did not remember how he got from there to the lower floor where Gabe and Fara waited for him. He thought he may have floated. However, a part of him was a tad concerned that a portion of the second floor might actually be toast by the time he got back.

For some reason, this simultaneously scared him and turned him on.

"Here is the phone." Fara handed Oswald the flip phone. _Wow, a dinosaur_, but it could still take and store pictures. They flipped through the photos as if they were at a family gathering showing off their grandchildren. There were pictures of Ed and Ann. Ann and another gentleman Oswald recognized. A few just of Ed. Ann at the hospital. Ann with a newborn baby. A few proud relatives. More pictures of the baby, now a few months old, at least. They came across the last picture—the one of the murdered couple, and Oswald swore under his breath.

"This is not Ed," he said. "This is Ann's brother." Oswald was willing to take bets he knew were Ed had been that night—holed up in some bar, drowning in _booze_ instead of his _wife_, where any _attentive husband_ would have been. Oswald recollected all that time he had been away from Cassandra and it enraged him that Ed would not know a good thing when he had it, _plus _Ed had not been there to see his good thing die before his eyes.

Oswald had been right—Ed loved his drink more than his wife.

_I will just take care of him myself. Invite him over for complimentary cocktails. How could Ed refuse?_ He dialed the speed dial on Ann's phone. There was no answer on Ed's end. He snapped the phone shut and placed it in his pocket.

"Well, let's see if we can locate our buddy, Ed, shall we? Invite him for drinks," Oswald said with his usual smirk. Fara and Gabe nodded, and Oswald caught a glimpse of Butch, Fish Mooney's former devoted lapdog—and man to be reckoned with—watching them from the bar. He had been "reconditioned" by Vicor Zsaz, a complete psychopath who had actually saved Oswald life on a direct order from Falcone. Regardless, Oswald still did not trust Butch completely. He would have to be watched.

Oswald went back to his office and was pleased to see Cassandra was still there, sitting on the rug in front of the fire. She had something in her hand.

_What is she burning now?_

He was also pleased to see that he still had an office and this floor of the building was still intact.

"What have you got there?" he asked, as he painfully settled onto the floor beside her. She had insisted they move to the couch before he lowered himself, but he waved her concern away and said it would be like old times, when they would sit on the floor of the trailer admiring his top-secret project. They pushed the chairs and couch back until they had enough room to lie back, shoulder to shoulder.

She held the paper above them both.

"Not that I don't trust your security, but I wanted this with me." She offered it to Oswald and he took it, recognizing his own handwriting and reading the words written. It was the letter he had left for her on his last day on the farm.

"You kept it?" he asked, astounded that anyone would care enough to keep something so intimate that had come from him.

"Of course," she said. "I'll never let it go." He could feel her studying his profile and that familiar blush started over his cheeks. He also could not help but start smiling.

"Stop staring at me."

"Not a chance." She paused. "You know—your letter deserves to be framed in gold—no, platinum," she teased. "Better yet—let's paint it on the wall."

"Don't you dare," he grinned. "I think I'll burn it," he teased back, sitting up suddenly. "Take a page out of _your_ book."

She sat up to get it back, but he held it up out of her reach, resulting in them being face to face, one of her hands grasping his lapel. Oswald knew she was only half-heartedly attempting to retrieve it as he was only half-heartedly attempting to keep it away from her. His main reason for doing so was to have her close to him. He enjoyed the way she twisted against him to avoid his maimed leg and got an electric charge when her smooth cheek brushed against his rough one.

When their noses collided, they both stopped struggling, her giggles dying down and his deep belly chuckles fading away. Her free hand was upon his wrist and he lowered his arm slowly until he held both the letter and her hand. He was certain it was not the fire in the hearth that was causing an intense heat to spread throughout his body.

He leaned to kiss her, this time treading softer and slower, not like before when he charged at her like a bull. He wanted to savor her, enjoy her like a fine meal instead of wolfing her down like a starving man eating fast food, even if he was famished.

_Maybe this time I will try using my tongue. I mean, that _is_ how people kiss, right? _He was positive Cassandra could feel his heart beating through his jacket, coming out of his chest.

There was a knock at the door before their lips could touch and Oswald made a sound in the back of his throat, somewhere between a growl and a whimper. Cassandra wilted and sighed.

"I ordered us something to eat," she said, folding the letter and stuffing it into her bra, to Oswald's delight. "Stay there, I'll get it." After closing the door, she rolled the tray over to Oswald and lifted the lid.

"Ta da!" she exclaimed. "Tuna sandwiches!" There were side dishes and something to drink and some sweet-looking pastry thing as well.

"But you _hate_ tuna," he said with raised eyebrows, but grinning nonetheless.

"That's why I'll be eating all the side dishes," she remarked, grabbing up a cold pasta salad, the one where as a kid she used to pretend she was eating tri-colored grubs. The first time she had revealed that to him, Oswald had turned several shades of zombie.

As he sat there watching Cassandra eat, something dawned on him. Ed had gotten away and until he was found, Cassandra could become a target. It was not like Ed was unconnected. He may even do something dumb, or smart, himself depending upon how you looked at it, while in one of his drunken stupors—which, let's face it—was all the time. But Ed will know that Oswald had Ann and her brother killed, although her brother's death was an unfortunate accident—an unforeseen variable.

_If only Ed wasn't such a self-centered man_, thought Oswald. _The death of Ann's brother was Ed's fault. If Ed had been there to begin with, Ann's brother would have never been privy to this at all. _Oswald would be sure to remind Ed of that the next time he saw him.

_But what am I going to do with my firebug in the meantime? _Watching herlick her fingers or drag them across her mouth gave him a few ideas completely unrelated to the task he now found himself having to consider. He shook his head in an attempt to clear it of the erotic images that sauntered around his brain, turning reason into mush.

_Damn, man. Can't you think for a moment?_

He was jolted out of his trance by the startling sensation of something vibrating against his chest.

_Great. Perfect timing_, he thought. Ann's phone was ringing.


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

"Excuse me," said Oswald to Cassandra. "I must take this. It will be the last disturbance of the night, I give you my word." She slumped.

"Fine. Just for that, I may eat your sandwiches," she lied, winking at him.

"So long as you don't burn them," he grinned. "Or do," he said, placing a quick kiss on her cheek, he felt comfortable enough doing that, and lost his balance trying to stand. Okay, he did not really, but . . .

She caught him and he reveled in the strength of her frame and the softness of her form as she pressed him to herself and held him up. He had _not_ forgotten how much fun it was to be caught.

Oswald hated leaving her again, but he wanted to wrap this up. This was for her, anyway, but he dare not tell her, not yet. He would eventually, but he was certain if he told her right now, he would scare her away.

After all, the law would consider what he had done as _murder_. According to statutes, she had only committed _arson_. Not as hostile, but not as innocent either.

He pulled the phone out of his pocket and went down to the farthest part of the hall. He did not want to be overheard. Since he had told Cassandra the beds were clean, he had the sudden need to check them himself and this would give him the added bonus of privacy. He unlocked the doors, inspecting each room as he conversed with the person on the other end of the line, which happened to be Ed.

Oswald had answered the phone without saying a word.

"Ann?" Ed's slurred voice tripped through the receiver. He sounded panicked.

"Nope. Guess again." There was silence from Ed, but Oswald could hear sirens in the background. He must have stumbled his way to the theater after all.

"Oswald?"

"You are correct, sir. Tell me, how is your evening progressing?" This room was clean; on to the next one. "Enjoyed any good movies lately? I understand there is a revival of a classic black and white at the Monarch. You should take Ann." Oswald snickered—he was enjoying this.

"What did you do, Oswald? _What did you do_?"

"Calm down, Ed, your thin skin is showing." _Sound familiar, buddy?_

"Where's Ann?" Ed sputtered. Oswald could hear people talking in the background and more sirens.

"I think you know, old friend," said Oswald, rather solemnly. This room was clean. "I was wondering if you would like to come by for drinks later. Discuss the family. I recently acquired a tremendous collection of fine wines and liquors. You can take your pick of the lot."

"If any harm . . ." Ed began. Oswald interrupted him rather viciously.

"Do not even consider threatening me you pinched-faced slovenly fool. This is a direct result of your drunken decisions. None of this would have come to pass if you would have followed orders. Oh, and Ann's brother has become a victim in this as well, so congratulations. I want you to live _every day_ of what is left of your _very short life_ knowing it was _your fault_." Oswald shook his head. "He did not deserve what you did to him. He would have made such a good uncle."

"_Oh, my G—_" There was shouting and Oswald heard someone tell Ed to step back. "That's my wife!" Ed yelled.

Oswald heard the phone clatter to the pavement and sobbing from Ed. He closed his eyes as he listened to the man cry and remembered each time he had cried over Cassandra. He thought of Jeb attacking her. He thought of her having her home, her place of sanctuary, stolen from her. He thought of her uncle's death—how that devastated her and tore at his heart.

Ed's unsteady hand had caused this domino effect. Ed did this.

"If you refuse my invitation, then I suggest you run, Ed," he told him. He could have sworn he heard Ed vomit and the scrape of the phone against the pavement. "Run because I am coming for you. It is going to be a bloody game of Marco Polo, _and you will answer me_, Ed, because I suspect you want me dead too. But I am a master at games. In fact, I am so good, that I let people think they are winning, when in fact, they already have one foot in the grave and are burying themselves."

This room was clean.

"Ed?"

"Who is this?" Oswald snapped the phone shut and his heart started racing. They could not trace him. He was calling from Ann's phone, and it was an antique—no GPS. He had not said anything identifiable. And if he was not able to drag Ed to where he wanted him, he would have to go after him himself. One way or another, this man needed to be killed.

His determination chased away his sudden alarm.

The phone rang again. The caller I.D. displayed Ed's number, but Oswald was not about to answer it. He turned it off and placed it in his pocket, continuing his inspection of the rooms. When he got to the one where Cassandra's bags were, it took every effort to not inspect her things. He sat on the bed and looked at her luggage, twiddling his thumbs, and then noticed the potted gardenia on the dresser. He laughed. She had brought the plant with her from home. The bloom was looking a little brown around the edges, but the scent was still as powerful.

He sighed and turned on a lamp before turning off the overhead light and leaving the room. He then thought better of it and changed the lighting back to how Cassandra had originally had it.

_My lovely quick-witted fire-dove who is afraid of the dark_ _and smells like the flavor of sugar. I shall have to carry a nightlight and an extinguisher with us wherever we go._


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16

Cassandra stacked the dirty dishes and placed them on the tray's lower shelf. Oswald's tuna sandwiches lay uneaten as well as did the French fries and the pastry. She scooped up a bit of the buttercream from the edge of the plate, sucking it off her finger as she laid back and stared at the ceiling.

She did not know what to think of Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot. He had come to her with nothing, dressed in rags, using an alias, and now—in the expanse of just a few months—he wore exquisite suits, had an executive assistant, and ran a club named after himself with his honest-to-goodness full title engraved on the business cards.

The ground she was treading on was uncertain, and _she liked it_. She had wanted Oswald back then, on the farm—where she was grounded—and she wanted him now, in Gotham—where she did not know what the heck was going on. That had not changed, but it was if she had suddenly been thrust into an alternate universe—the man's surroundings were different, the man's wardrobe was different, the man's name was different, but the man himself was still the same.

_A rose by any other name_. Oswald would like that comparison.

There were many cracks upon the ceiling, so many in fact, that it reminded her of the paper maps that were still in print with the zigzag roads and highways and X's marking the spots for the main cities and surrounding towns. She slanted her head and frowned, her eyes traveling the span of the ceiling where the light from the fire brightened it. Right below her right arm, in the corner of the ceiling, not more than a few feet away, she saw a navigation symbol. It was vague, barely a whisper of an image, unnoticeable unless someone was looking for it.

She held her breath. _I believe my darling has a map upon his ceiling._ The cogs in her brain started moving rapidly. She thought back to his top-secret project that had been on the ceiling of the trailer, hidden under the poster. It had been undoubtedly a map too.

_Same map_? She was willing to bet money it was. _Was it of Gotham_?

There was nothing to give away its presence in the darkened areas of the room and, honestly, if she had not been staring at the ceiling for such a long period of time, she would have never noticed it—passed it off as settling architecture. She wagered there was a concealed switch somewhere in the room that illuminated the entire map when he needed to study it.

_Probably under the edge of his desk, _she deduced. She was tempted to search for it, but did not want to intrude. It would feel too much like snooping and she did not want to betray his trust.

But she was tickled pink to have made such a fine discovery. _What else shall I uncover about you, delicious gypsy boy?_ She stretched luxuriously enjoying the warmth from the fire and the soft rug beneath her. Blessed with a full stomach and cozy atmosphere, Cassandra felt the needling hint of sleep as it at poked her, and lamented that she had not had a chance to consume the pastry and plant a very thorough goodnight kiss on Oswald. She did not think he would mind if she just fell asleep right here.

By the fire.

With the lamps on.

Underneath his hidden map. _ My love is a genius_, she thought_._

She was suddenly intimated by the size of his brain. _But, you know what they say about men with big brains . . ._

She chuckled to herself as she slipped into her food and fire coma. She never heard Oswald enter or notice the blanket he draped over her or the pillow he gingerly placed beneath her head. Somewhere in her subconscious, Cassandra was enveloped by a sudden reassurance of unwavering security as Oswald lay down beside her and wrapped a protective arm around her waist.

Neither had yet realized this was going to be one of the best sleeps either one of them had experienced in a very long time.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Gertrud Kapelput was _so mad_. Her pride and joy, her baby boy, the one she had spent hours with in labor, bringing him into this world was not home yet and it was the wee early hours of the morning.

_Ungrateful ragamuffin cannot even pick up the phone and call his mother!_ She yelled in her head. "We will see about this! This is _your_ son!" She pointed a perfectly polished finger at a framed photograph of Oswald's father. "No son of mine would go a day without letting his mama know where he is! This is not the _first_ time! The tomcat!"

She paced the floor of the Victorian brownstone, stirring up the dust under her feet. The particles did not bother her, but it was one of the reason's Oswald's nose was constantly red whenever he was there. His constitution was strong, except for his allergy to dust. He never got sick. This was probably due to his constant childhood banishment into the cold whenever his father was around. It was always only Oswald who was exiled; never his brothers.

Of course, this was something Gertrud never noticed, and by all means do not point it out to her. She will have none of it! She managed instead to make herself the injured party and offer excuses for her brute of a husband. They had to survive, after all. Who else was going to pay the mortgage and put food on the table for her and their four children? It was not long until their large family dwindled down to herself, Mr. Kapelput and Oswald, her other babies tragically taken from this world, one after the other. Then one day, it was just her and Oswald.

Generations ago, the Kapelput name—now spelled C-O-B-B-L-E-P-O-T for the dimwits who were too stupid to know how to pronounce it—brought to mind affluence and prestige, having been one of the original founders of Gotham City, war heroes even. Through the years, hardship and unwise investments dwindled away both the family name and fortune. This is how she came to live in an apartment in a building the Kapelput kin used to own.

Not a day went by where she did not remind Oswald in one way or another of her disappointment. Whether it was from her sighs from not having a certain product from their native country because of the expense to fly it in, to the reminder of grander pieces of furniture that had to be sold, but would not fit in the apartment anyway because it was too small, the weight of her discontent was placed upon Oswald's shoulders.

She could not see that otherwise at least Oswald was free, and despite her unwillingness to help him or not having the strength to do so, he adored her. Gertrud would say she did what she could—insisted his brothers include them in their play, which resulted in Oswald being bullied by them; sent him to a good school—where he was taunted and ate alone; gave him money to go to games to get him away from his father—where he was publicly humiliated. These things she did to help him.

Oswald never once saw what a weak and selfish woman she really was. He resolved to building her toys and bringing her gifts for her supposed gestures of kindness and protection. He was a child, and these are the things that children would see. It was black and white to him, except for when it was not, and when those poisonous musings would drag themselves toward him like an injured hit-and-run victim, he would drown them, refusing to see his mother for anything other than perfect.

Right at this moment, Gertrud Kapelput was perfectly angry. She had even drawn the ingrate a bath, and he was not here to appreciate her for it. She poured herself a smidge of sherry in a fine crystal cordial, one of the few things she still owned that had made it down through the generations without being hocked.

She stopped and thought about that for a moment_. There was no one left to pass it down to_, she frowned. Suddenly, she found herself rethinking this whole idea of being the only woman in Oswald's life.

_Eh, he is too young_, she shrugged, throwing back the alcohol into her mouth. She liked the way it burned her throat and warmed her chest. It did not however diminish the troublesome thought of the Kapelput name dying out. That did not sit well with her. That did not sit well with her at all.

She poured herself another glass—_oh, it's just a little one, one more won't hurt_—and grinned to herself. It was time for mommy to play matchmaker—a silly little girly she could control, one with a few screws loose would be ideal. One he would not really like or form an attachment, because—_honestly, doll face_, she thought, looking at herself in the mirror—_I am the best woman he could ever hope to have in his life. It is patently undeniable_. Besides, the painted strumpet would not be around after the baby was born. Gertrud chuckled.

_There are so many shrewd ways to get rid of troublesome pests._

She daydreamed about the hour her grandson would be brought into her dismal world to brighten her days. She would finally have a child who did not take her for granted and would provide for her in the manner in which she deserved to be accustomed. One who would put her above all others, even himself.

This delighted her so much, that she celebrated with a thir— , fourt— , _fifth _glass of sherry.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

"The _what_, darling?" Commissioner Loeb rubbed his forehead and tried to concentrate on his daughter's inane rambles. Miriam had invited him to a mid-morning tea party and was showing him her latest design, a bracelet to go with the necklace she had recently created. The one made from starling bones. He grimaced and ignored the desire to cry.

She had murdered her mother, his wife.

She had urges.

His baby was crazy and this was the only way he knew how to protect her.

Lock her in a room with pretty things.

To keep her out of Arkham Asylum.

To keep her out of sight.

To keep her out of _his _sight.

Gordon and Bullock already knew about Miriam and what she had done. Loeb had given Gordon a file on Bullock, which contained dirt on the seasoned detective, and Gordon agreed to keep mum about Miriam's crime.

He bit into a shortbread cookie and washed it down with a sip of hot tea, two lumps of sugar, please, and hold the dairy. She was rambling on about something he had never heard her mention before in all the times he had visited her in her looking-glass room.

"The bird-man, Daddy." She motioned to the top of her head. "He had a little tuft of black hair and big eyes, and _a beak_." She nodded and pointed to her nose. "_A beak, Daddy, where his nose is supposed to be._" She turned her attention back to her bracelet. "You know how I like birds. He looked like a bird. I liked the bird-man." Her eyes twinkled. It had been years since her eyes had twinkled.

Except when she killed the birds. They twinkled then.

"A bird-man?" he frowned, shaking his head. "Where did you see a bird-man, sweetheart?" Miriam had her father fasten the bracelet around her wrist and then shook it. It made a clattering noise, and Loeb wiped his hands on his napkin.

"I saw him _here_, Daddy," she said, as if he should have already known it. "When those nice men visited me." Commissioner Loeb was beginning to get the picture. He already knew about Gordon and Bullock's visit, but who was the little bird-man?

He had suspected that it was someone within Falcone's circle that had acted the part of mole for the cops—how else could Gordon and Bullock find out about this place—and now he was sure of it. But which one was the snitch?

"What else do you remember about the bird-man, baby?" She stopped playing with the bracelet and dropped her hands to her lap looking skyward and smiling, practically beaming. He could see the light coming out of her.

"He had very pale skin and a broken leg," she said. "He had such big eyes."

"A broken leg?" he asked. "Was it in a cast?"

"No," she looked at her father. "He limped. Like a predator had tried to eat him and he got away."

"Huh," Loeb said, leaning back in the wicker chair and picking at his mustache. A dark-haired man who limps and looks like a bird.

_Well, well, Mr. Cobblepot. Looks like you will owe me a favor—unless you want me to tell Falcone you betrayed him, you little rat, er—bird._

"You never did get your evening to sing, did you my tiny songbird?" he leaned forward and took his daughter's hand.

"No, Daddy. You were there. You saw what happened. You saw her steal my song." She started pulling on the bracelet and he was afraid she would break it.

"Hush, hush, darling," he said covering her wrist with his hand to stop her from tugging on the jewelry. The last thing he wanted to do was clean up scattered bird skeletons. Their tiny bones get wedged into the crevices of the wooden floor.

"Your daddy is going to take care of this. Your daddy has a plan." He grinned at her. "Pick a song, my dear. You are going to be performing center stage."


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

The sunlight came in from behind the navy-colored curtains in Oswald's office, gently prodding him awake. He could tell by the comfortable coolness in the room that the fire had gone out hours ago and he could hear the protests of dying embers as they popped their disapproval. He was grateful that no one had bothered them during the night or this morning, that there no fires he had to put out just yet. He grinned at his little joke and peeked at Cassandra.

Her face was only a few inches from his-_how I want to lavish kisses upon that countenance!_ Her breathing was steady, and he lay there listening, watching her features for any signs of stirring.

_I shall have to leave before she is disturbed by a buzz or a knock at the door . . . I'm going . . . aaany minute now . . ._

Her breathing was almost as hypnotic as the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest. _Why should I leave? I am the boss. I can do what I want, and I want to stay right here._

He moved closer to her until his forehead lightly touched her shoulder. Just enough to feel the fabric of her shirt, to capture a hint of her scent.

Closing his eyes, Oswald ignored the responsibilities that knocked at the door of his mind, brandishing their agendas and demanding that he pay attention to them.

_Just for a little while_ . . . he cried. _Just for once allow me some measure of rest and a little bit of bliss._

_We did_, they reminded him. _Now she is here and you have to do these things to guard her and to stay powerful and to procure and retain what you want, which not only includes Gotham, but Cassandra as well. Now get up_.

Begrudgingly, he rolled away from her and changed into another suit he kept in his office for emergencies. Never in a million years would he have believed anyone who would have told him that this "emergency" would include having slept the night beside the woman of his dreams—who seemed honestly to enjoy his company. He would have laughed in their faces, and then quite possibly cut their throats.

He changed slowly and kept watching her, the bolder side of him hoping she would wake up while he was in a partial state of undress. _How would she respond?_

The timid side of Oswald was glad she continued to slumber. The conditions for an amorous encounter were not ideal, and he was shy about his leg. It was not pretty to behold.

Besides, he had a more permanent arrangement in mind.

Oswald ignored the stubble on his face and allowed his hair to remain at ease on his scalp rather than standing at attention, although he did brush it back off his forehead.

He took the elevator to the main level of the club where Gabe met him and told him that apparently Ed had skipped town, taking his son with him. As for the numbskulls who tried to kidnap Cassandra, one had experienced a most unfortunate end during a standoff with Maroni's men and the other one was still running around Gotham, eluding not only Gabe and Fara, but the GCPD, who also seemed to have a keen interest in his whereabouts.

Oswald knew it was only a matter of time until he caught up with one or both of them. He considered turning the failed abductor's wallet over to James Gordon—with a well-orchestrated explanation of how it had come into his possession, of course—but decided he would wait. Oswald would like to get to him first.

He sipped on some freshly brewed tea and had a couple of pieces of toast while he reviewed what was on today's schedule—a threat here, a theft there, some truths to twist . . . so much to be done, including an unexpected visit from Commissioner Loeb who would be stopping by in the afternoon. This made Oswald suspicious. It just seemed like odd timing that he would stop by directly following the incident with James and Detective Bullock at his hideaway.

_It was that damn bird-girl, I am sure of it. My goose is cooked_.

These thoughts, although not vanquished from his mind, were relegated to the back burner once Oswald saw Cassandra cascade down the stairs. He immediately rose from his seat to approach her and wished he had shaved this morning. It did not seem to bother her as she hugged him and planted a kiss upon his lips. Oswald was glad he had, at the very least, brushed his teeth.

"Good morning," he said, his arms still locked around her. "Sleep well?" She nodded that she had. He felt goose bumps travel up and down his spine as she played with his hair at the nape of his neck.

"I'm sorry I fell asleep in your office."

"I'm not," whispered Oswald, not letting her go, caressing the areas of her back that lay underneath his fingers. She had changed too. Her white blouse was soft.

"Thanks for the blanket and pillow." She blushed. "Where . . . where were you last night? After I feel asleep?" She turned a deeper shade of pink.

"Right beside you," he touched the tip of her nose with his. He could not believe how easy this was. He wondered if she still had his letter tucked closely to her heart.

"No wonder I slept so well," she said. His own heart swelled, and he took advantage of their closeness to kiss her—_no tongue, not just yet_. Her lips were soft and plump and it was hard to pull away. "Breakfast?" he asked her. She shook her head and requested coffee instead.

"Would you like to assist me in choosing singers to reserve?" he asked. _The threats and the half-truths could be done on breaks, but I may have to push back the thievery._

"Singers? Oh, I see—rub it in a little," she teased. He chuckled.

"Nothing of the sort—it's just—well, I should have told you that I do not date my employees." She grinned at him as he led her to a table near the stage and held out her chair for her to sit down. He took a seat beside her.

"Well, that is good to know," she said. "I would have had to quit on my first day, so I could go out with you—it would have been worth it. You could have fired me—oh, no, wait—there is that nasty problem of unemployment." He chuckled again. It was so good to have her back. He intended to keep her this time.

It was well passed lunch before they decided to take a break from auditions. Some of the singers had talent, but the majority were mediocre at best and a handful were just plain terrible—albeit they made for lighthearted entertainment as Oswald and Cassandra wound up hiding behind menus so the performers could not see them laughing.

Oswald ordered them a late lunch and checked his watch. Any moment now, Commissioner Loeb would walk through those doors. His stomach knotted, but Oswald was mentally prepared for whatever disaster was about to befall him, so imagine his surprise when bird-girl—Miriam—trailed in after her father.

_Yep, bird-girl, with a capital "B" which rhymes with "T" and that stands for "trouble"_.

Oswald had not expected her to show up at his club. He quickly began to reshuffle scenarios in his mind. Gabe escorted them in.

"Commissioner Loeb! Always a pleasure to see you!" Oswald approached him and held out his hand.

"Mr. Cobblepot. Oswald." Both men shook hands. "I hope you are well. I believe you know my daughter, Miriam." Loeb flashed a wicked smile at Oswald who narrowed his eyes at the commissioner. "Is there someplace private we could talk?" he asked.

"Of course, of course." Oswald kept up the façade of delightful fondness.

"Your hair is not standing up," said Miriam to Oswald, trying to touch the top of his head. Before he could beat her hand away, Gabe intervened and blocked her assault, as did her father when he caught her arm and scolded her. He knew what happened when she touched the heads of birds.

Oswald took note that Miriam did not have on the gruesome jewelry she had shown him at their initial meeting, but she was still dressed in that Pollyanna-meets-Alice-in-Wonderland garb, which was freakish on a grown adult woman.

Cassandra moved to Oswald's side and took his hand.

"Handsome either way, isn't he?" _Was she jealous?_ He could not help but grin, this was a new experience for him—a woman other than his mother jealous over him. He was flattered, but she should not concern herself; he only had eyes for her. Nonetheless, his self-confidence had just gotten a big boost.

The commissioner held out his hand to Cassandra. "Commissioner Loeb, at your service." She had to let go of Oswald's hand to shake it but then quickly reclaimed it after greeting Loeb and exchanging pleasantries.

Gabe was still there, standing on the other side of Oswald and inquired if he would need anything else. Oswald indicated that he did not and Gabe walked a few feet away—always ready to assist in case his boss needed him.

Miriam's attention was suddenly diverted to a rack full of clothing that had just been rolled in for the talent coordinator to approve. She touched the pretty clothing and found that she was drawn to a flowing dark blue dress with long sleeves and golden sparkly birds scattered across the fabric.

"Miriam, sweetheart, don't wander off," her father called to her.

"Okay, Daddy," she responded. "May I wear this when I sing? When do I get to sing?" She removed the dress pressing it to the front of her and spinning around.

"Sing?" Oswald questioned, looking with bewilderment at Loeb.

"Yes, that was what I wanted to talk with you about seeing as we have separate but shared interests. I thought it might behoove Miriam to get her out of the house once and awhile, that it might aid her . . . faculties, if she could occasionally sing here, at Oswald's."

"I don't need any new singers," Oswald insisted. Cassandra sharply glanced at him and he shook his head and rolled his eyes. She frowned, and he could feel her shift her position. He need not look down to know her left hip was jutted out.

_Not, now, pleeeaaase, Cassandra_, he thought. She did not say anything, and he was grateful.

"I think it is better than the alternative," said the commissioner. "Sometimes the canary sings, the parrot repeats what it has heard . . . shall I go on? It would be a shame if _certain persons_ caught wind of _certain dealings_." Loeb saw it dawn on Oswald's face the trade-off he was requesting.

"Now look here, Commissioner Loeb—"

The conversation might have continued except that Miriam had taken it upon herself to climb onto the stage and start singing a cappella. She had apparently changed right in the middle of the tables and chairs without anyone noticing because she now had on the blue dress, her little girl dress crumpled in a pile near the rack. It hung loose on her, but it did not take away from her lovely voice as be began to sing about a skylark.

"Oswald . . . listen . . ." Cassandra had taken his shoulder with her other hand and both men turned their attentions to the stage. Cassandra still held Oswald's hand and her arm was pressed against his. He gazed down at Cassandra while she watched the girl on the stage. If only they had been alone, he would have nuzzled her ear and planted his lips against her jawline then continued downward, his musings surprising even him with their increasing bravery.

Of course, it was just a daydream. He really did not know if he would actually do it had they been alone.

_Yeah. Yeah, I would._

One thing was for certain. Miriam could sing.

Cassandra turned to look at Oswald and a slow grin started spreading across both of their faces. Miriam was one of the ones with talent. Oswald made a motion for the musician to accompany her on the piano.

Up there on the stage, singing her heart out and with the spotlight trained on her, Miriam discarded the shroud of someone lost within her own mind and managed to come across as a professional vocalist. Oswald turned to the commissioner who looked sad, happy, and astonished all at one time.

"You drive a hard bargain, Commissioner Loeb, but you've got yourself a deal," Oswald said.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

Cassandra was not going to put up with anyone saying anything the least bit derogatory to or about Oswald and when that odd young woman made that remark about his hair, Cassandra could not help but intervene to say something positive about him.

_Wait a minute, how did she know about his hair? How do they know each other?_

Oswald Cobblepot was one of the most attractive men she had ever seen—the perfect mix of adorable and smoldering, and it did not matter to her one iota how he wore his hair or if he was smooth-shaven or sported a shadow—she could not resist him. She would not even care if someday he decided to bleach his hair blonde.

_I am jumping to conclusions. He never mentioned another woman, only his mother. _

Add to that a quick mind—impressively intelligent with a side of wit, his knightly quest for fairness—like he had stepped in a puddle of it and could not shake it off his sole, and an overwhelming desire to protect her—from what, she did not know.

_I am not going to be one of "those" women. It is normal that he would have female friends. Actually, no it isn't. _

_What this place needs is some candles._

Then there was his poet's heart—one that would make every other romantic bard—_Byron, Shelley, I'm looking at you_—twist with jealousy, and his magnetism—to have experienced the adversities he had and still have such amazing charisma, that took strength.

_I am not going to ask him about her. _

_They do not have to be fancy candles, just plain candles of the no-scent variety._

Because of these things, Cassandra knew she never wanted to live another day apart from him.

_I am probably going to ask him about her. _

_Lots and lots of no-scent candles._

It was also why she was experiencing this new emotion she suspected was the poison referred to as jealousy. She did not like it.

_When have I ever been jealous, and can I get a shout-out for Oswald's stature_? she thought. _Thank goodness he is only a few inches taller than me. _

She despised dating tall men. She was always breaking her back or straining her neck when looking up at them. That was because she was short.

_I have been here a day, and already I can feel my freak flag trying to fly. _

_Restaurants have candles—that's a thing, right?_

She glanced at Miriam. _Or maybe I need a collection of freak flags. I do not have enough freak flags. I need another freaking freak flag! Breathe, Cassandra, breathe._

Oswald was the perfect height, and because he was not as tall as most men, that meant he was not average, something she already knew just in talking with him. He was unique, not common; one-of-a-kind, not run-of-the-mill.

_I can feel him studying me, and now he is squeezing my hand._

Believing that he wanted her, made her feel more special than she knew she really was. She was scared he would leave her for good when he finally discovered that she was, in fact, just an average, boring person.

Who liked to play with matches.

"Thank you. You may have just saved my hide," said Oswald.

_Huh?_

He had just seen Commissioner Loeb and Miriam out the door—letting Miriam take the navy dress—and was speaking to Cassandra who was coming out of her reverie.

"How so?" she inquired.

"By making me listen to the bird-girl sing," he said. "I may have just continued arguing with the commissioner, but . . ."

"How do you know them?" _Her? Particularly._ He paused, and she watched as his face contorted, debating.

"Come with me." He led her to the staff elevator and back up to his office. "It would not befit us to have prying ears around," he said. He guided her to one of the chairs in front of the fireplace and pulled the other one up to her until their knees almost touched.

He clapped his hands together once before clearing his throat, then rubbed the back of his neck—a habit he had when trying to compose just the right words or was caught off-guard.

"You probably have guessed that the business I am in—the people I deal with—neither leans in the direction of virtuous proclivity. My current boss . . ."

"You have _another _boss?" He froze, and Cassandra continued. "Does he think the same way about unemployment as your first two bosses?" she asked. He laughed and said, "I'm afraid so."

"Try not to get fired," Cassandra said, taking his hands. She did not know why she always had to make a joke. Nervous habit, she supposed. She was actually terrified for him.

"I joke, but I am terrified for you," she said. His face softened and he kissed the tops of both her hands.

"It is right you should be," he said. Cassandra countenance suddenly resembled what Mount Rushmore would look like if the faces started sliding down the side of the mountain. Oswald bit his lower lip, but Cassandra could still see the laugh he was suppressing.

"I assure you, I take every precaution . . ." He sounded so self-assured; too bad she did not share the same confidence for his safety he did. He plopped their hands back down into his lap and sighed.

"I don't want anything to happen to me either, or to you. But I digress—you asked how I knew them. I did a favor for someone on the police force, which required me to betray a confidence of my current boss. The commissioner knows this and is using it as leverage to get his daughter on my stage. You may have noticed she is not in the most sound of minds. Killed her mother." Cassandra gasped, and Oswald looked oddly disappointed, but recovered quickly.

"I know, right?" he heartily agreed. "I would have kept arguing with him if you had not had said something because . . ." He took a deep breath and closed his eyes admitting rapidly, "Because I did not want you to see me as weak." He peeked at her.

Cassandra gently grinned. "Weak is the last word I would use to describe you." Oswald beamed and rubbed her hands as she confessed to him, "I do not want you to see me as jealous, but I am." His face lit up even more.

"I wondered," he said, not meeting her eyes. "No one has ever been jealous over me before." A rosy bloom settled itself across his nose and both cheeks. "It is rather pleasant, actually." Then looking at her with earnest he insisted, "You have no reason to concern yourself with anyone. My affection toward you is unwavering. Surely you know this by now."

Cassandra felt sheepish. If his letter and manner were not enough to cement his regard for her, then she truly was the queen of freaks indeed and required no more flags. She nodded, the thoughts of restaurant candles promptly snuffed out, and smothered him with butterfly kisses.

Oswald sat there and took it like a man.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

Sal Maroni was in low spirits, literally and figuratively. He wanted to know who had ordered the reallocation of his liquor and thought it very convenient that Oswald's was swimming in the booze when the little stoolpigeon was supposed to be experiencing a drought. He reassessed that perhaps he had not given that gimp enough credit. Seems that this pint-sized baller want-to-be is more brazen than he looks. He might actually be trouble.

_I will just have to conduct a polite survey to learn which idiots within the GCPD actually thought they had the kahunas to steal from me and get away with it. Where's the loyalty?_

He had lost a lot of money and the clubs he supplied were not happy to receive partial orders, to say the least. He had sent out his best men to smooth over the mishap and offer future incentives. With a little encouragement, so many of them were full of forgiveness, but a few threatened to get their booze from elsewhere. Maroni did not like those terms. He thought it in everybody's best interest that he continue supplying the liquor, but word had gotten out that someone was brave enough to rip him off, and his status of terrifying mob boss at taken a hit.

It was Penguin's fault. He would get that little bird, one way or the other.

He could not wait to see his face when he showed up unannounced—just like last time. It had been so satisfying to pour that expensive bottle of champagne and watch it overflow from the glass Penguin held, trickling down in front of him and splashing his shiny shoes. It had given the allusion that the snitch was wetting his pants from fear. Maroni chortled at the memory and wondered which expensive bottle of alcohol he would use this time.

_I will pick out a good one,_ he thought. _Maybe an imported whiskey or Falcone's favorite indulgence. _He took inventory in his mind. _It would after all be from my own warehouse._

At nine o'clock that evening, Maroni had his driver take him to Oswald's club, which was really one of Falcone's assets, so he had to tread carefully. Falcone and Maroni had for the most part gotten along with each other and both made a lot of money. No need to rock that boat now. But there was no way he was going to let this slip by with Penguin. He was not supposed to kill him, but maybe another arrangement could be made. Maybe there was someone within Falcone's crew that did not take a shine to Penguin. Maybe someone who was tired of being in the shadows. Maroni certainly could not be blamed if one of Falcone's own men did away with the stoolie.

Victor Zsaz was standing at the door when Maroni walked inside. He shivered.

_That man gives me the creeps_. He watched him pull his phone from his pocket and make a call. Next thing he knew, Gabe greeted him from around the corner.

"Evening, Don Maroni. How may we help you this evening?" Gabe inquired.

"Oh, just making the rounds. Tell Penguin I want to talk to him," he asked.

"Let me check and see if Mr. Cobblepot is available. In the meantime, why don't you have a drink—on the house. Let me get you your favorite." Gabe smirked and motioned for a waiter to bring Maroni a drink before walking up the stairs to where Oswald and Cassandra were sitting. They occupied the table where Oswald had first seen Cassandra on his stage.

"I'm sorry to interrupt you, Boss, but Maroni's here. He is requesting to speak with you." Oswald nodded and debated whether to risk sending him up to his office where they would have some privacy or go downstairs where they would be seen in public—of course, Oswald had never been deterred from killing someone in the presence of others, and doubted this would cause Maroni a problem of conscience either, sooo . . .

_You are under the protection of Falcone_, he reminded himself. But Oswald was always a blink away from getting in touch with his vicious killer side.

Oswald also wanted to keep Cassandra separate from his business dealings, yet had a desire to let her know everything. He wanted her to be his partner in every sense of the word—it was weighing both the adjustment and the danger that was stumping him.

_So maybe not just yet._

"Escort him to my office. Bring along a bottle of that champagne I was enjoying the night of his impromptu visit. I was able to acquire fifty cases recently," quipped Oswald. "I will enjoy giving him one bottle as a parting gift."

"Maroni?" Cassandra questioned, after Gabe left.

"One of the former bosses I mentioned earlier," he said. "The nicer one." He started tracing the lines on the palm of one of her hands. "Would you like to know more about what I do?"

"Yes." She had a dreamy look on her face. Oswald hoped it was because of him and what his fingers were doing. There were so many things his fingers looked forward to doing.

"Even with the danger?" he asked. "Everything I have had to do to stay alive?"

"Yes, I want to know. I want to be involved. In spite of the danger—maybe because of it—but definitely to know all of you and to help keep you alive," she responded. Oswald licked his bottom lip and nodded, narrowing his eyes at her—considering.

"Having full disclosure may help keep you safe and alive as well. I will always defend you, but you will also need to know what to expect, see it coming, and plan accordingly," he said.

"Like playing chess," she said.

"_Exactly_ like playing chess," he echoed, pleased with her observation. He wanted to continue trailing his fingers over her wrist and up her arm, instead he held her hands tightly and said, "Allow me this last meeting and then I will tell you everything. Starting tomorrow, you shall help me run all of it—from the hiring and choice of décor down to the last fork and anything else that we need—and I'm not just talking about Oswald's—there is more to it than that."

Cassandra was dumbfounded and at a loss for words. Oswald was worried that he had rushed into this—came on too strongly—_Did I sound desperate?_—and for a moment, he thought that she might reject his offer. He could feel the sweat break out across his brow line and suddenly his neck was prickly hot.

_What have I done? I knew this was too good to be true. Don't go. Don't go. Don't leave me._

"Are you sure you want to do that? _That much_?" she asked.

"Yes, I have no doubts. _Wait_—do you have doubts?"

"No. None. Not at all," she replied, shaking her head. "But you know tomorrow starts at midnight. What about your rule of not dating your employees?" she asked, consulting her watch. "You have approximately two hours to provide a solution to that problem."

His eyes twinkled at her when he grinned and said, "I already have one." Oswald was ready to dance a jig on the table. If his leg had been well, he would have been tempted to do so. Instead, he rose from his seat and disappeared down the hallway toward his office.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

"Thanks for not keeping me waiting," Maroni said, dripping with sarcasm when Oswald shuffled into the room. Gabe was standing beside the door inside Oswald's office and held it open as Oswald entered. He waddled forward with a smirk on his face.

"Well, it would have been rude of me not to delay for our final guest. I hope you have not been waiting long." There was a knock on the door. Gabe turned the handle, opened the door, and in walked Falcone.

"Cobblepot. Maroni," he nodded his head, greeting them both.

"Good evening, Don Falcone. I hope you are well. Should you desire anything from the grill, please let me know and I will have the chef fix you anything you want. I have prepared a glass of your favorite liquor for your enjoyment." He motioned to the green bottle on the desk and the crystal glass full of the bittersweet liquid.

"It's appreciated, Cobblepot. Forgive me while I pass on both until after our talk."

"Of course, I understand," said Oswald, waving his remark away and feeling just a little bit insulted. He had wanted to show Maroni that Falcone and he were on the same level and had a bond. Falcone took a seat at Oswald's desk. "Thanks for coming, Maroni. I wanted to talk to you." Oswald did his best to hide his resentment as Falcone commandeered Oswald's chair relegating him to stand.

He refused to sit in any of the other chairs; _this_ one was _his_. Besides, standing made him feel more in control. He believed sitting down after the display of alpha male from Falcone would only make him look like a dog with his tail between his legs. He would rather stand, thank you. Stand above them all. Even if it hurt.

_Someday you will show me respect, Falcone, the way you should. All of you will._

"Hey, I came here on a whim. There is no way you would be expecting me," protested Maroni, shifting in his seat.

"Well, my man here," he said, pointing to Oswald, "informed me earlier of an unfortunate situation that occurred regarding a shipment of alcohol." Maroni sneered at Oswald and interrupted Falcone.

"You're right. Your _man here_ stole my liquor. Even had the GCPD do his dirty work for him."

Just because Oswald looked like a deer caught in headlights did not mean he was one. "That's not quite true, Don Falcone. Maroni would not fulfill our order, we were low on supplies . . ." Falcone held up a hand to quiet Oswald.

"You're a man of business, Maroni. You understand the politics of supply and demand, and how important it is to keep customers happy. And when customers are happy, Maroni, I'm happy. We're all happy." He spread his arms. "But my customers were in danger of not being happy. I want to make sure that they are not put in this danger again." He clasped his hands in front of him and laid them on Oswald's desk. "Do you think, being a man of your word, Maroni, that you can promise me and Cobblepot here that my customers will stay happy? Because one thing _you do not want_ is for me to be unhappy. You would not like me when _I am unhappy_, hell, _I_ don't like me when I'm unhappy," he chuckled. "Cobblepot!"

Oswald went to stand beside Falcone. "Yes, Don Falcone?"

"Am I fun to be around when I'm unhappy?"

"No, sir." Falcone pointed his thumb in Oswald's direction. "He knows me. He gets me. He's a good kid. Come here." Falcone patted Oswald on the side of his face. Oswald stood up straighter and raised his chin higher, daring Maroni with his eyes to rebuke his connection with the most powerful man in Gotham. A father and son could not have been closer, Oswald knew this for a fact. Bearing in mind that the son would do what he needed to do to survive.

_You see, Maroni, you pathetic moron. He trusts _me,_ not you. You're screwed._

"We are both powerful men, would you agree, Maroni? But, let's face it, I am more powerful than you. I can cause you a lot of problems. Now you know I don't want to do that. Takes up too much of my time, things get messy, bones get broken, people get hurt, empires crumble . . . All I want to do is keep my customers happy. Can we all agree to do that?"

"I think we can come to an arrangement—"

"We already had an arrangement, Maroni—through Fish, unless you don't think I deserve the same respect."

"No, Don Falcone. I mean yes. I mean—you deserve more, better respect than Fish Mooney ever received." He loosened his collar. "Humor me, if you would, Don Falcone. How did you know I would be here? Did the snitch tell you I was here?"

"No, my associate Victor rang me when you arrived. I told him to call me whenever you showed your face in my territory. And here you are, and so we meet. Face-to-face, man-to-man. We will just chalk up the confiscation of your assortment of booze as my club's original order."

"More was taken than just your original order—"

"Well, then, we will just call it interest and excellent customer service. Consider it now that you have paid me back in full. I hope that we will not have this problem again in the future. It would be a shame if we had to break up our partnership; we work so well together, don't you think?"

"Yes, Don Falcone. We work well together," he sneered. _I'm the injured party here,_ he thought. _How the hell did this table get turned? Cobblepot_. "I'm just not sure either of us should be working with Penguin here. I don't trust him."

"He has served me well."

"Yeah, I thought he was serving me well too."

"That only goes to prove his loyalty to me. He is a clever, ambitious man and not once has betrayed me, and he knows a lot." Falcone tapped his own temple.

"Wait. Just wait," said Maroni. "He'll betray you—if he hasn't already. Mark my words. Then come and tell me about _your man_."

"Really, now, Maroni," Oswald feigned chagrin. "I must protest. I was hoping we could put all this in the past. Let bygones be bygones. Here, please accept this bottle of champagne—I believe you may recognize the brand—as a token."

"Heh," laughed Maroni. "A token of what?"

"Of better things to come."

"Now there is a toast worth drinking to," Falcone said raising his glass. "Will you gentlemen join me?"

"Of course, Don Falcone," said Oswald and motioning for Gabe to retrieve two more glasses. Gabe poured the liquid and handed them off to Oswald and then Maroni before taking his place back beside the door.

Falcone held his glass high and the others followed. "To better things to come," he said and downed the drink.

"To better things to come," Oswald and Maroni said in unison. Maroni gulped down the drink and Oswald tried to, but gagged on the savory liquid. Falcone clapped him on the back.

"That's okay, Cobblepot. It's the anise—it's both sweet and pungent. You will get used to the bitterness," he said. Oswald wiped the liquid that had dribbled down his chin and nodded his head, trying to play off his dislike of Falcone's favorite beverage. "I must be going now," he continued. "No need to see me out. Good evening to you both."

"Good evening, Don Falcone," they said.

"You suck up," said Maroni to Oswald, as he stomped out of the office.

"Don't forget your bottle of champagne," called Oswald, a half-grin on his face. "Looks like he didn't want it." He picked it up from the floor beside the chair Maroni had occupied and placed it on his desk. "Thanks, Gabe, that will be all for now."

Oswald turned his back to the open door and picked up a few papers on his desk, shuffling through them. He realized someone else was in the room too late. Maroni had come up behind him smashing the champagne bottle on the desk and holding the jagged piece underneath Oswald's neck as Oswald spun around to face him.

"Listen here, you disfigured no-good squealer—you may think you are something and that you are going to be somebody in this town, but I know better. You are a one-trick pony and once Falcone cuts you free, I'm going to do some cutting myself—" Oswald peered over Maroni's shoulder and his look of fright turned to absolute terror. He held up his hand to stop her, but he was too late.

"Hey, asshole!" yelled Cassandra. Maroni turned around and she clumped him as hard as she could on his nose with a fierce upward swing—what a boxer would refer to as an uppercut—using one of the umbrellas she had grabbed from the stand near the door. Maroni went down with a thud, bumping his head on the desk on his journey to the floor.

"Hey," Cassandra said, studying the umbrella in her hand. "These things make good weapons."


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23

Jason Lennon had been a little too hasty. He ended up dumping his latest victim where he had tried to grab her—right outside her place of employment; she had fought back. His charm offensive had not worked. It is just that she looked perfect and he had to try. She was tougher to persuade. It did not help that he could not find his wallet to spend the amount of cash he had wanted to in that dive. Flashing cash was always an ice breaker.

He _had_ managed to convince her that she could do better than to work in an establishment like this and had coaxed her into letting him share her break time with him, which for her included smoking a cigarette outside in the alley. He used it as an opportunity to list all the ways she was above the grime and how he wanted to help her come to that conclusion for herself.

_Smoking is bad for your health_, he told her. She had shrugged off his comment. Really, someone as pretty as she was should not be smoking that acrid poison—her face would turn to leather. Watching her inhale the nicotine reminded him of that commercial for bags that you store clothes or other items in and had that vacuum where you could suction all that air out of the bag. Her face resembled that suctioned bag every time she took a puff. He could almost hear her face crinkle.

He had to save her from this.

Unfortunately, his heroic efforts did not work out as planned.

She was now a part of the backstreet décor, slumped in-between two black trash bags next to a large dumpster. The plan was to hoist her into the dumpster, but the door to another business opened and he stepped into the shadows to hide. When they had gone back in, he returned to his lifeless prey, but the sound of a drunken group of yuppies who were out slumming interrupted the second attempt. It bothered his obsessive-compulsive disorder something fierce, but he was just going to have to leave her.

He adjusted her skirt, so that at least she was presentable—no need to be immodest just because you are a corpse—and hid again in the shadows until they passed. That was two close calls and no one had noticed her. He considered a third try, but the back door to Oswald's was opening, and he hightailed it out of the alleyway and into the dark night.

Five minutes later, a dishwasher who had been commanded to take the trash out, breathlessly narrated in his own language his discovery _right outside the door_! It took him a while to calm down, but a shot of whiskey helped. His supervisor translated to Fara what he said.

Upstairs, Gabe closed the door to Oswald's office and hoisted Maroni from the floor to the couch.

Oswald was caught in-between wanting to plant a fierce kiss on Cassandra and compliment her precision, to wanting to shake her and ask her if she realized what she had just done. He was in too much shock and his mind was racing on how to deal with the situation, so he did neither. Gabe however praised her and Oswald felt a pang of jealousy and failure when she smiled at his associate.

Gabe searched for a pulse through Maroni's meaty neck.

"Well, he's not dead," he said. "But he will probably come round in a few minutes."

"Did I do something wrong?" Cassandra asked Oswald. Her nerves were showing and Oswald knew she might be in need of something to torch.

She held one of his hands in both of hers, her eyes as big as a child's on Christmas. He touched her face and drew her into a hug, reassuring her that she had in fact done everything right, that it was his fault, he should have let her in on his dealings sooner. If he had, she would have been prepared; he also told her to remind him to never make her mad.

"I saw the blaze in your eyes before you swung," he said. He held her face in his hands. "You are a sight to see when you are angry." Thinking of what a great cohort she was going to make practically had him salivating. If he could keep her alive, or teach her how to stay alive. Not that she did a bad job of surviving herself—but Gotham was a monster of a different breed.

_What am I going to do?_ He thought. _She is as good as dead._ He would have to kill Maroni.

"He deserved it," she said. "He had a broken bottle at your throat. There was no way I was going to let him hurt you. I would rip his eyes out first."

_Ohmygosh. I hope she puts that in our wedding vows._

A knock at the door caused them all to turn like meerkats to the sound. The knob twisted, but the door was locked, so no one could just walk in.

"Boss?" It was Fara. Oswald motioned to Gabe to let her in and shut the door behind her. "We have a situation—" she started. "Holy crap! Who whacked Maroni?"

"_This is Maroni_?" Cassandra yelled. Fara looked at her.

"Did you do this? Damn, girl, I knew I was going to like you," she held her hand up to receive a high-five, which Cassandra returned in slow motion, her other hand now covering her mouth. "The war is _on_!" she continued, placing her hand on her hips. "Oh, and there's a dead girl out back."

"What?" asked Oswald. _This keeps getting better and better._

"One of the waitresses, she never came back from her break. She is beside the dumpster on a bed a trash bags—our own sleeping beauty."

That is when Oswald's plan came into motion.

"Gabe, Fara, show our friend here the back door. Make sure he is comfortable beside our tragically deceased colleague. Make sure no one sees you, and be sure to capture the moment will you? For scrapbooking purposes." He smirked. "And leverage."

"Leverage?" asked Fara, disappointed. "You mean he ain't dead?" She heaved the man up on her shoulder. "I got this, Gabe," she said, holding up her hand to him.

"Yes, ma'am, you most certainly do," he responded. He was used to this, but still enjoyed seeing her do it. Cassandra stood there wide-eyed as the dark lady flung Maroni around her shoulders like a pashmina. She looked at the men as if they too should be gape-mouthed, but received no such response—because this was _completely normal_.

"Gabe, gather up the broken glass—use gloves," Oswald motioned to the shattered champagne bottle, "It will be disposed of on our guest."

"What can I do?" Cassandra asked. He almost told her to stay here, but then needed her for one more thing that had to be done, and she was about ready to come out of her skin. He could practically feel the electricity emanating from her.

"Come with me," he said. He almost looked sad. On the way down in the elevator, he asked her again, "Do you want to know what I do? Are you willing to help me?" She nodded.

"Tell me what you need."

When they got to the corpse of Oswald's former waitress, Fara dropped Maroni beside her and whatever had been in those trash bags underneath him leaked out with a hiss, the four of them getting a healthy whiff of whatever rotting thing lived there. The resounding response was "ugh".

"Oh, man," said Gabe, leaning over the dead woman. "She was one of our better servers. Friendly. Got all the orders right. It is a shame."

"Indeed it is," remarked Oswald. "Her death will not be in vain. Because of it, she is protecting us." He sighed. It was so hard to get and keep good help.

"Sort of like our guardian angel, in a way," said Fara. Gabe started to discard the bottle.

"Don't throw down the glass yet." Oswald removed the cheap handkerchief from Maroni's outer breast pocket and fished around in the girl's pockets until he found what he was looking for. He turned to Cassandra.

"Are you ready?" he asked her. She nodded her head. Oswald told Gabe to go ahead and throw down the shards and then photograph Maroni with the body. Someone started opening a door across the alley and Fara went to lean on it, effectively keeping it closed. The image called to mind the children's tale of the little boy that stopped a damn from leaking and flooding a town by plugging the hole with his finger.

"Okay, Cassandra, I've already dialed the number and the handkerchief barrier will help disguise your voice, but still talk an octave higher."

Before the nasally voice on the other end of the line could finish saying, "Hello, 9-1-1. Please hold." Cassandra screamed.

"Please help me, he is trying to kill me!" She then threw the phone to the pavement near the lounging couple. Gabe, who still had on the gloves and who had previously removed one of Maroni's shoes, now used the crude leather loafer to crush the phone before replacing it on Maroni's foot. Oswald motioned for them not to speak in case someone could hear on the other end. Gabe waited until Fara quickly and stealthily moved back across the street and into Oswald's before giving the alley a thorough scan and shutting the door.

When they were back in his office, Oswald took Gabe's gloves and the handkerchief belonging to Maroni and bundled them in a piece of newspaper. He then confiscated the memory card from Gabe's phone, giving him a new one and locked the old one in a drawer in his desk. For now—he would move it to his safe later. No one, not even Gabe or Fara knew about the safe.

The photo would come into play should he need it—should the police not make it time to find Maroni passed out beside a corpse. Since this woman's phone had been newer—Oswald made certain to pay his employees well, even if he was losing money—there would a tracker on it, provided Gabe did not manage to disable it when he smashed the phone. The GCPD should be here in minutes, and even if he did smash it—it would not be but a couple of hours tops before someone finds the body—

No sooner did these thoughts appear like tickertape across his mind, when there was a scream and a commotion outside. Oswald looked down from his perch to the passageway below and saw a flock of people circling around the body. The body—singular.

"Was I _wrong_ in thinking that Maroni was left lying there with the dead woman?" Oswald huffed. The other three walked over to the window and peered down, because that would not be obvious.

"He was there when we entered the building, Boss," said Gabe. "Looks like he recovered. I will go down and check the club for any sign of him." Oswald nodded.

"Fara," Oswald said. "Go be a curious bystander, will you? The police department ought to be here any moment. I am sure they will ask everyone in this vicinity questions as it happened right outside the lounge."

"Sure thing, Boss."

"And shut the door on the way out, please," he called. Oswald turned to Cassandra.

"You did good. Everything you did—perfect," he told her, leading her away from the window. "_Everything_." He wanted to emphasis that her attack on Maroni was warranted as well, and he was delighted with her.

Oswald believed himself incredibly blessed that she was with him. She was a natural and did not seem fazed. At least, not to the untrained eye. One can never tell what is really happening beneath the surface unless one looks closely.

And he does, he _always_ does.

Only he was starting to learn that he had to become more of a sleuth with her. She played the actress well, and sometimes he misread. He did not think he was misreading her right now—she needed something to burn. Like when she had gotten jealous of Miriam and he had squeezed her hand to try to reassure her while hoping she did not make a mad dash for any matches.

"Yeah?" she grinned mischievously at him. Her pupils suddenly dilated under his gaze. She wrapped her arms around his neck. "Everything perfect?"

"Mmmm hmmm," he hummed. "I realize your nerves might be buzzing right now, so I wanted to give you a task that needs to be accomplished that, I hope, will simultaneously help take off the edge." He handed her the wadded up newspaper containing the gloves and handkerchief.

"How would you like to build a fire?" he asked her.

Within minutes, as Oswald had predicted, the GCPD had arrived as well as the coroner and the reporters. The scene on the street and within all the surrounding businesses was barnyard chaos. Cassandra and Oswald were calmly snuggled on a couch in his office watching the fire in the hearth and waiting for a knock on the door. He was playing with her hair.

On the main floor of Oswald's, Butch Gilzean leaned against the bar with his arms crossed. Cops dashed in and out nearly bumping into each other like the Keystones, fake witnesses were animated in the retelling of their non-existent stories, and reporters were sneaking shots and stealing tips. He watched the proceedings and chuckled to himself.

That was because Butch Gilzean had a secret.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

The interviews were over, but Detective Gordon wanted some of the patrons and business managers—anyone that had been there that night with stories that needed to be recorded in more detail—to come down to the precinct to give formal statements. This included staff and regulars from Oswald's. The Four Musketeers, as Fara had started referring to themselves as in private, were part of the people that Gordon had requested come down to the GCPD offices, so they made sure that their stories were straight, similar—but not perfect—because that would raise suspicions, Oswald reminded them. _All for one, and one for all, correct_?

The GCPD had seen its share of lovely people walk into its chambers, but it had been a while since it had been graced with any comely creatures—Dr. Leslie Thompkins, physician at Arkham Asylum and Gordon's new girlfriend, having been scarce around the precinct lately— so imagine its glee when in walked Cassandra and Fara.

Oswald felt impeccably proud to be walking in with Cassandra on his arm when he saw the reaction of the men—and a handful of the women— as he shuffled down the aisle to James Gordon's desk. He imagined himself to be in the last scene of an epic movie where the underdog is revealed to be the hero and gets the girl everyone wants while being met with applause of admiration.

_That's right_, he thought. _Get a good _long_ look. She is with _me.

Detective Bullock looked up from his paperwork when he heard a catcall and spotted the two women. He let out a low whistle.

"Let me question them both, Jim, at the same time—it will be the closest I will get to my fantasy of a ménage a trois with chocolate and vanilla."

"Really, Harvey, _come on_," Jim replied, frowning. "Besides, I doubt that," Jim took notice of Oswald among the group. He turned back to Harvey and rolled his eyes. "I cannot handle Cobblepot right now—you take him and Gabe. The women are mine, _all mine_." He grinned and waggled his eyebrows.

"No fair," said Bullock. "You already got one."

"It's because they like me better," he responded before approaching Oswald and the brunette beside him.

"James! Old friend," exclaimed Oswald. "It is my distinct pleasure to introduce my two most favorite people in the whole world to each other." He would have continued, but James jumped in and introduced himself to her. Oswald watched him carefully. He wanted the two of them to like each other, but was not overtly pleased with the rapt attention the detective was giving Cassandra.

"That's a lovely first name," he told her after Cassandra introduced herself. "So how do you two know each other?"

"He was a tenant of mine and my uncle for a while before he returned home to Gotham, a city he loves very much, I might add. I could not live without him, so my heart guided me here." She looked to Oswald and he suddenly felt like the tallest man in the room. A peacock could have not been prouder. He slipped his hand down her arm to interlock with her fingers.

"I have not let her out of my sight since," piped in Oswald. She boldly placed a lingering kiss upon his cheek and Oswald's abnormally pale skin darkened.

The stunned look on James's face made Cassandra smirk. He remembered chastising Leslie for a public display of affection, but the two lovebirds in front of him did not seem to mind.

"Now, Detective, did you need to take my statement?" He responded by holding out his arm in the direction of his desk and she reluctantly let go of Oswald, casting him a backward glance.

The grin on Oswald's face quickly faded as he felt a heavy hand upon his shoulder and heard Detective Bullock say, "Well, well, well, looks like our little penguin is in love, but I highly suspect she does not really love you back." He guided him to another area for questioning.

"You would be wrong," Oswald said. "You have no idea how wrong you are." Oswald refused to allow the detective to get to him. Bullock shrugged.

"Whatever floats your boat," he said. "It sounds like you are just trying to convince yourself she has feelings for you."

"Well, I doubt that you called me down to the precinct to talk about feel—and why do you have to be such a jerk, Detective? What have I ever done to you?"

"Besides evade the law?"

"Oh, like you haven't?" Oswald quipped. _There. That shut you up, didn't it?_

"Okay . . . so tell me from the beginning what happened."

"Cassandra and I were in my office—" Bullock interrupted him, stuffing his notebook under his arm and placing a finger alongside his face.

"So, that's the bird's name? Does she know that you've got the hots for her?" Oswald just stared at him.

"It is not 'the hots' as you indicate . . ." he sputtered, fighting off the memories of nightmarish school days and the bullies that taunted him about his crushes. Oswald did not like his affections for Cassandra to be referred to with such vulgar terminology. It not only showed lack of respect for her, but for himself as well.

"Ah ha! So you _do_ have the hots for her. _I knew it_!" Bullock interjected.

"Well, I guess that's why you're the detective, _obviously_," said Oswald, courage fast approaching. Bullock paused and regarded him out of the corner of his eyes.

"Do I detect sarcasm?" he asked Oswald.

"Ah, there is again! You are doing more of that there 'detectiving'" Oswald sang, wagging his finger at Bullock. "Did they learn you that at the Academy?"

"I think that was definitely sarcasm," Bullock nodded. Oswald rubbed his forehead.

"Wow, this not the course I thought this interview was going to take." Oswald looked down at the scuffed floor and placed his hands on his hips, drumming his sides with his fingers. "Do you want my statement or not, Detective Bullock?" he sighed.

A little while later, while James was still talking to Cassandra and Bullock had managed to hijack Fara—who seemed quite pleased with the arrangement, actually—Gabe approached Oswald with a message.

"Boss, I just got a call from the club and I think I ought to go ahead and give you this note," Gabe handed Oswald the slip of paper. It read: "Dear Mr. Cobblepot, sir—your mom has just called and left you this message and I quote: 'Just saw the news about the body found outside your club. Don't worry, it isn't me, seeing as how you have not been home or phoned me in two days—you probably wouldn't know this.'" Oswald crumbled it up and threw it in the trashcan.

"Wait, there's more," Gabe handed him another piece of paper. It continued: 'I didn't call and leave word on _your _phone because _apparently _you do not want to talk to me _anyway_, so I left word with someone who _would_.'

Oswald sighed. "Is there more?" he asked. Gabe gave him another one. 'If you _do_ decide to return home, please bring some crackers from your club as I have no food here and am wasting away. Also, please bring sherry. I mean the drink and not a whore. Oh, and this is your mother.'


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25

Butch was rather proud of himself. He was scared shitless of Oswald right now, but also mad as hell. He meant it when he and Oswald had made a toast to no longer being second fiddle to anyone, and that meant Butch was not going to be second fiddle to Oswald. He and Fish had toiled to get this club cleaned and running and it should rightfully be his.

He missed Fish. She was his best friend. He enjoyed watching her torment people whether it was physically, emotionally, or mentally. She was really so very good at it—had it down to an art form, really. He wished she was here now to play with this little bird.

_She isn't_, he thought. _But Maroni is, and Maroni had never had me tortured_.

Granted, Butch acquiesced, Falcone had a right to be upset. Fish and he were going to overthrow Falcone and take over all his operations, but still . . . and as much as he respected Falcone and feared Victor and Oswald, he could no longer align himself with this team. Fish had meant too much to him and he believed he would never be one-hundred percent safe as long as he stayed with them.

Unless he could work as a double agent for Maroni. Butch wanted Oswald gone for good and he wanted this club. He hated Oswald. Maroni hated Oswald. Falcone did not. There was really only one choice.

So imagine his delight and surprise when he found himself able to do Don Maroni a common courtesy, well, common for the line of work they were in—a favor done, a favor owed.

He had watched it all play out. Oswald, Cassandra, Gabe, and Fara trying to frame Maroni for the murder of one the lounge's best waitresses. Shame too—she always got the orders right. He shook his head. He had told the police he had not seen or heard anything that had gone on because he had left early that night, but that was not true. Okay, only part of it was true.

After the four conspirators had come back in, Butch had gone out back. He had been the only one to see them exit with Maroni and come back in without him, so he went around Oswald's to the alley and found the Don lying beside the dead woman. He had tried to revive him by kicking the bottom of his shoe. When that did not work, he slapped him across his face. That worked too well and the Don pulled a gun on him.

"Whoa, Don Maroni. I am just trying to help you out." Butch gestured to the corpse and Maroni recoiled.

"Is this someone's idea of a joke?" he demanded, staggering as he raised himself, gun still pointed at Butch, who was nonetheless helping him to stand.

"I'll give you one guess," Butch replied.

"_Penguin,_" spat Maroni. "That's it—deal or no deal with Falcone—I'm taking down that little snitch. Throwing me out like I'm garbage," he muttered. "Beside dead things . . . Did he kill the wench?"

Butch put his hands up to stop him. "No, she was already here. But, listen, stop—let me handle Oswald."

"_I'm_ gonna handle him," said Maroni, his free hand on the doorknob back into Oswald's.

"There's photographs," stated Butch.

"What? What photographs? Of what?" He paused and turned around. He smelled like rotten apples and decaying meat.

"Of you beside the dead girl and a broken champagne bottle," said Butch. "He plans to use them as leverage, would be my guess. I think together we can take down Oswald—and much more dramatically and hurtful than if you just stormed in there and shot him. Bring him down in public and subject him to some heartache and fear to boot."

It was then that Maroni realized his prayers had been answered. It would be better for someone within Falcone's own circle to take out Penguin. He clicked his gun back into safety and replaced it in the holster under his arm. This could be good. This could be real good.

"Why don't we go somewhere and talk?" suggested Maroni.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

It was the rage that did it.

When Cassandra saw that beefy man hold the broken champagne bottle to Oswald's throat, she felt the tingle. It started in her eyes before it spread to her brain and then the rest of her body. It only took a matter of seconds. She understood the phrase "seeing red" because that was what she would look through—a red haze. It happened occasionally, even as a child.

No rose-colored glasses for her, my dears, so just put those back on the shelf.

When she had seen Oswald in distress, she had acted on pure hate for his assailant, empathy shutting off, running on an autopilot fueled by adrenaline—there was no flight mode, only fight.

When this occurred, the wildness that clawed at her brain demanded an immediate attack—for the sake of survival. Otherwise she enjoyed basking in more subtle forms of aversion—which until recently had only consisted of setting things on fire. Now she could add the immense enjoyment of blowing things up to her list.

With each pyro-sode, she had become braver, lingering longer, closer, a partner with the flame. _How near can I get without getting burned_? Sometimes it seemed she even controlled the fire itself—not mere partner, but master.

_Dance for me_.

The flames would jump and bow as if telling her "_thank you for letting us live"._

_Which was why Maroni should consider himself lucky_, she thought. If there had been a flamethrower in that umbrella, he would have come out crispy. And here's the thing—the thing that ought to bother her the most but did not—was in fact, that _none of it bothered her at all_. She was nonplussed by her thoughts and feelings, and by her actions. Was it not normal, after all, to defend a loved one, to come to the aid of someone needing help? Did the means _actually_ matter?

Because, let's face it, it felt _really good_ to smack the snot out of him. Thinking about it was making her agitated. She wanted to do it again, but there was just that tee tiny little problem of not knowing where he was.

"I have a bad feeling about that," she told Oswald on their way back to the club. There was a slight drizzle and he held his umbrella over the two of them while she supported him on the slippery pavement.

_Ohmygosh, he smells good_.

Gabe pulled the car around, while Fara stood guard with her own umbrella, near the couple. The leather squeaked when they got in the car, and all Cassandra could think was that the leather would be ruined by the rain spatter. Oswald scooted himself close to her.

"Did you really follow me to Gotham?" Oswald asked Cassandra.

_Didn't he hear what I just said?_

Fara was settled in the front seat, and Gabe took his cue and rolled up the window that separated the front of the vehicle from the back to allow Oswald and Cassandra some privacy.

"I believe my heart did, even if my mind did not know where you were." She ran her fingers through his hair and he leaned his head back sideways, watching her.

_Oh, what the heck. I'm going to take advantage of this closeness to explore him. _

_Chastely. _

_-Ish. _

_A-hem._

He had one arm wrapped around her waist, the other rested on her thigh, of which she was acutely aware. His bad leg was stretched out, but the rest of him was positioned toward her as much as possible.

"I'm glad you listened to your heart," he said.

"Me too."

"I'm worried that we don't know what happened to Maroni," she repeated, then "Did everything go all right with Detective Gordon?" he asked. She continued to play with his hair and then her fingers trailed across his face. She saw his eyes glaze over as she did this.

"Yes. Just took my statement. There was no indication of any red flags." She planted a kiss on his forehead. "How did things go with Detective Bullock?" He rested his head on her shoulder and she embraced him running her hand up and down his arm.

"Seemed to go well." He yawned. "I'm worried about Maroni as well, but if he comes gunning for us, I have pictures of him with a deceased waitress, which I will be more than delighted to show him and will take particular glee in suggesting that it may be something the cops might be interested in viewing." He tilted his head back to look at her and she could not resist nuzzling his neck. It was odd to hear someone chuckle from that close a range. She could feel the vibrations from his body against her cheek and chest, and his warm breath tickled her ear.

"I believe I neglected to thank you for defending me," he whispered. "Not many people do that for me. You were a wonder to behold indeed." Cassandra drew back to look down at him.

_What would I have done if I had lost him a second time?_

"I couldn't lose you again," she whispered back while brushing her thumb back and forth across his cheekbone.

"You won't. I told you I would tell you everything," he said. "And I intend to—." He was cut short by a loud screech and a violent jolt that sent both him and Cassandra spiraling across the seat and onto the floor. Oswald yelled from the sudden agony in his leg, and tears sprang to his eyes.

Cassandra pulled him back up and he grabbed her upper arms, his hands tight as claws—_goodness, he is strong_—burying his face against her and crying out again, before he drew in a sob. She leaned him back against the upholstery and stroked his face and hair, telling him to breathe in slow and deep. He did as she said and kept his eyes focused on hers, his pupils constricted. All the color had drained from his face and tears were rolling down his cheeks.

"What the hell was that?" she yelled to the duo up front. Fara was now peering at them through the now open partition.

"Is everyone all right?" Fara asked, frantically.

"His leg . . ." Cassandra had started to pull up the leg of his pants, but he grasped her hand and started to say something. All he managed was a moan, and then, "We should have worn our seatbelts." Cassandra offered a surprised, yet slowly mushroomed half-grin, like the Cheshire cat after an afternoon of sharing the caterpillar's pipe. She wiped away the tears that had escaped from his eyes, and he loosened his grip on her arms somewhat. It was clear that no time soon would the pain subside back to the standard ache to which Oswald had grown accustom.

Through the rain-spattered window, Cassandra could see that a sedan had slammed into the front corner of their vehicle. It was still dark outside—the sun had not yet begun to rise and the storm clouds obstructed the moon and stars. Not enough light to make out the color of the car that had hit them. The streetlamps were too dim to reveal even a small hint, and the light that reflected off the rainwater did nothing to help.

The windows of the other car were tinted. Even on a clear, bright day, it would have been impossible to see the driver. Gabe removed a gun from underneath the seat and waited.

After a few beats, a man got out of the passenger's side and approached their vehicle. He was fishing something out of the pocket of his jacket. Fara had moved quickly and was already out of the car. She was always looking for sport and was ready to fight. She held the tip of a spear on the man's neck.

_Where did that come from_?

Gabe's window was halfway down, so they could hear what was being said. Cassandra felt cool little splashes of rain as it lightly pelted the left side of her face. The wetness irritated her cheek, like when someone is holding his finger in front of your nose but not touching you, and she wiped the moisture off with the back of her hand. Fara was pressing the metal tip further into the stranger's flesh. Cassandra heard Oswald groan beside her; she hoped Fara drew blood.

Lots of it.

"I take it, this is no accident," the Amazon growled to the man.

"I am only here to deliver a message," he said. "I have a packet for The Penguin." Fara gestured for him to remove it slowly and hand it to her; Gabe kept his gun trained on him. Fara held the man at spear's length not taking her glare off him while she reached behind to hand it to Gabe, who had stepped out of the car. He unwrapped it with caution and frowned, shaking his head.

Cassandra was closest to Gabe so she rolled down the backseat window, inviting in the chilly precipitation. The air smelled heavy, like wet oil and tar.

"It's a ring," he said to Oswald. Oswald gritted his teeth, his face contorting from the pain in his knee as he leaned over Cassandra and snatched it out of Gabe's hand.

"It's my mother's ring," he stated.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

Mrs. Kapelput was unable to sleep. She had enjoyed every last drop of the sherry, causing her to pass out, but now she was awake and could not get back to sleep. It was a horrible side effect of too much alcohol—quick to sleep, but not for long. To top it off, she had a terrible headache and hoped that some hot herbal tea would offer some relief. She had just brewed it—chamomile—and was preparing to take a sip when there was a knock at her door.

"Mrs. Kapelput, this is the Gotham police, we are sorry to bother you at this late—or early—hour, whichever way you look at it, but it is an emergency regarding your son, Oswald Chesterfield Kapelput." She set the tea down on the side table, careful not to spill it. The china cup clinked against the saucer.

She was excited that someone had referred to Oswald with the correct pronunciation of their last name.

_Finally, someone showing the kind of respect her family deserved_. "Mrs. Kapelput, are you awake? Again, we apologize."

"One moment," she called out, examining her image in a wall mirror tainted with the dark smudges of age. She had fallen asleep still fully dressed and fixed the rebellious curls that had escaped the flower-bejeweled combs. So what if it was costume jewelry and not the real thing. It was pretty and it sparkled.

_Just like me_, she thought.

A quick peek through the spyhole confirmed that they were with the Gotham City Police Department. She could see their uniforms and one of them held up a badge.

"Come in, come in," she said, opening the door. "Would you like some tea? I just made a fresh brew. It's steeping hot. I would offer you something a little stronger but . . . um . . . I don't drink." One of the officers looked to the trashcan that had the empty bottle of sherry in it, but he made no remark.

"No, thank you. We are terribly sorry to bother you at such an unseemly hour, but we are acting on behalf of your son. You may or may not have heard that there was a body discovered outside Oswald's club earlier this evening." Gertrud clutched her blouse and nodded her head.

"Dreadful business," she said. "I heard all about it on the radio." She motioned to a radio that looked more like a mini-cathedral.

"Oswald is worried for your safety and he sent us to pick you up and deliver you to the club." Gertrud's eyes narrowed.

"He is worried about me?" she asked. "Why did he send _you_ and not Gabe to pick me up?"

"They are down at the precinct right now being questioned. He hoped that by the time he got back to the club, you would be there."

"Why would he go back to the club and not come here if he was so worried about me?"

"Well, miss—I'm sorry—_ma'am_, it's just that you are so young looking, we would not have any idea about your son's motives. We just got the call and are doing our duty to protect one of Gotham's most prestigious citizens. The Kapelput name is a pillar of this city."

Gertrud regarded them with keen eyes.

_They think I am a fool. Their flattery is as empty as that bottle of sherry_. She was starting to become apprehensive. She batted her eyes and moved into the kitchen, proceeding to take two teacups out of the cupboard.

_Something felt off._

"I must insist that you have some tea." She looked up and out the window. "It's raining. Surely a nice hot cup of tea will keep us comfy cozy warm, hmmm?" She poured some of the water into each teacup before reaching down under the counter to remove a pot and fill it with the rest of the water from the kettle.

_Observant, aren't they_? She rolled her eyes. _I can sleep better now knowing these sleuths are on the streets_.

She watched them squirm. She knew they were up to something. They were getting impatient.

"No, thank you, Mrs. Kapelput . . ."

"Oh, call me Gertrud," she sang. "Now, come and sit at the kitchen table. No reason to be inhospitable."

"It's just that it's urgent, ma'am. We really need to be going. Don't want to keep the boss waiting."

"The boss? My boy is your boss?" One of them grabbed her arm. _Rather roughly_, she thought. That was rude.

"Look, lady. You're coming with us and that's all there is to it." She smiled and threw the pot of scalding hot tea water in his face. He needed to learn his manners. Howling like a banshee, he stumbled back and knocked over a chair reaching for balance. The other officer ran into the kitchen. He assessed the situation like a good, that is— trained—policeman does.

"Ma'am, now we will have to take you in," he announced, removing handcuffs from his pants pocket. "You just assaulted a police officer."

"That wasn't _salt_—that was water! _This_ is salt!" She threw a handful of salt into the officer's eyes. He dropped the handcuffs and reached towards his face. Gertrud made a dash for the front door as he rinsed his eyes at the kitchen sink, but she was grabbed by the other cop who held her by her hair. She kicked behind her trying to aim for his leg, but she did not have on her shoes and the soft padding of her heel made contact with his boot. He laughed.

"Nice try, lady."

"What do you want?" she asked while she struggled.

"Seems _your boy_ has made quite the enemy," he said. "And the enemy would like to make your acquaintance."

The other cop came around the corner drying his eyes on a towel and blinking rapidly. His eyes were red-rimmed and Gertrud grinned, rather pleased with herself.

"Leave her some hair, would you?" he said.

"Oh, what is this!" spat Gertrud. "Are you playing 'good cop, bad cop'?"

"We don't want to hurt you, Mrs. Kapelput—"

"Speak for yourself!" interrupted the other cop.

"We were just doing a favor for someone, and he needs us to deliver you to Oswald's this morning. Right now!"

"How do I know you will not take me to a vacant field and chop me up into little pieces!"

"I'm considering it as an option," said the man who held her. She head-butted him and then hit him in the groin with her fist. He stifled a cry and his partner could not help but smile. He admired the ferocity of the struggling woman.

"You have my word, Mrs. Kapelput—Gertrud. We are taking you to the club where you will see your son, and the man who hates him so much," he reassured her.

"I won't go quietly," she growled.

"Oh, yes, ma'am. I'm afraid you will," said the gentleman cop. Right before he hit her.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

When Oswald and his entourage arrived at the apartment he shared with his mother, he found the door slightly ajar. He attempted to charge in ahead of the rest of them, his gait more unsteady from the fresh pain in his knee, but Gabe stopped him. Oswald's voice trembled as he called out for his mother, but there was no answer.

Gabe drew his gun and went in first, inspecting the place. Fara stood guard with Oswald and Cassandra in the hall. Oswald was using his umbrella to stand, but was also leaning on Cassandra for more support, his leg still throbbing. He shook, but this time it was not just from pain, but from fear and anger as well.

He could not wait any longer and he entered his home. The aroma of freshly brewed tea still hung in the air, but the rooms were empty and in disarray. There was salt all over the kitchen floor, and the table and walls and counters were wet, like someone had slung water over them. An end table and a chair were on their sides in the parlor with magazines and figurines strewn on the carpet. A couple of lamps were busted and he noticed a broken teacup, which he bent to pick up, depending on Cassandra for balance.

It had been hand-painted in England with delicate pink and yellow roses.

Oswald held a piece of it while he limped from room to room, still calling for his mother. Cassandra wandered around the apartment, soaking up this secret side of Oswald, the Old World ambiance seeping into her pores. She noticed the antique doilies and faded family photographs. There was a Victrola and decade's old radio, and one of those ancient rotary telephones with the gigantic handle and mouthpiece, the kind Cassandra had always admired.

She and Gabe righted the furniture, handsome pieces adorned with carvings of various fowl, including owls and other scavenger birds. The furniture was beautifully crafted and sturdy in weight. Tell-tell signs of age and transport, apparent only in the light, betrayed scratches and dents and frayed cushion fabric.

What really attracted her attention though were the cast iron oil lamps. Everywhere she turned, she saw one. They sat upon the matching eterages, side tables, and the mantle above the hearth, displayed in three separate colors—cobalt blue, cranberry red, and amber yellow. She bet they were pretty when lit and imagined the flames illuminating the dyed glass, casting kaleidoscope shadows upon the brown dingy walls. She pictured Oswald growing up and doing his homework by these lights, his mother peering over him, double-checking his work. He had hated school.

Cassandra knew what it was like to lose both parents and she worried for Oswald should something dastardly happen to his mom. She really did not know much about his folks, except that he had vehemently disliked his father. Oswald had revealed to her that his father had been a cruel man and had died when Oswald was still in grade school. He did not miss him.

He never spoke about having siblings—he had a knack for skirting the issue—although she did notice a few scattered pictures of children, placed about the shelves and tables, framed in ornately carved wood or entombed in tarnished metal. She picked up a picture of a younger Oswald, hair slicked back off his face, looking cherub-like. Grinning gently, she wiped the dust off his face just as Oswald reappeared from the foyer.

"Maroni's behind this," he declared, hobbling towards her and chucking the porcelain back down to the floor. He looked ready to collapse. Cassandra replaced the photograph and slipped an arm under Oswald to support him.

"This my fault," said Cassandra. Oswald looked at her, draping an arm around her shoulders.

_I can see why she would come to that conclusion_, he thought. _Her actions ignited something that was already there. She was just the spark that he needed to lay official claim to what was rightfully his. Let the wildfire begin._

"I just wanted to protect you," she said. "I should say I'm sorry—but I'm not sorry. I do not regret defending you, although I feel responsible for your mother."

He held her with one arm, pressing her into his neck and chest. He had been leaning on his umbrella with his other hand and arm, but chose to lean into her instead.

"You need not worry yourself with that mindset. It is not your fault. How could I fault you for saving my life," he remarked softly, kissing the top of her head. Her hair was like silk. "It's Maroni." Oswald's voice hardened. "He's had it in for me for some time now. Ever since he found out I was working for Falcone." His eyes, which had been bleary, were suddenly ablaze.

_Soon they will all be working for me. Or working to avoid me_, he smirked to himself.

Fara, who had been squatting, stood up and said that there had been two of them here. Gabe kept checking each window to see if there was a possibility of more danger or if he could spot anyone that might have seen anything. At this hour, however, most people were still asleep.

_Bur-ring._

The gilded phone Cassandra had been admiring started ringing.

_Bur-ring_.

Oswald motioned for Gabe to answer it.

_Bur-ring_.

"Yes?" Someone spoke on the other end and Gabe handed it to Oswald. It was Butch.

"Butch, what do you want?" Oswald grunted, perturbed. He had bigger fish to fry.

"It's not what _I_ want, buddy. It's what _you_ want," said Butch, jovially. He was having such a good time. "Remember those cops that helped me out with the raid at Maroni's warehouse? Well, they agreed to help me out with the raid at your apartment. Seems I have something that might be of more value to you than booze," he paused, but got no reaction from Oswald. "I assume you received the ring?"

"I will kill you," Oswald said. "Where is my mother?" The gears in his head started turning.

"Calm down, Oswald. No harm has come to her," he looked over to Gertrud who was sporting a bruise under one eye. "Well, not too much harm. I heard she put up a fight. She is going to have a shiner. I am truly sorry about that, Oswald. I don't agree with hitting women. But she is fine now. Enjoying your best sherry—the drink and not a whore—isn't that right, Mrs. Kapelput?" he snickered, offering her a wink. She sneered at him and turned away. "You really should call your mother more often," he told him.

"I really am going to kill you, Butch," Oswald reiterated. In the back of his mind, he started formulating options.

"You want to talk to her? Hold on," he held the phone to Gertrud.

"I do not want to talk to him," she spat, and then literally spat on the floor. "No good son of mine. If he had called his mother, none of this would have happened!"

Butch put the phone back to his ear. "Did you hear that? She doesn't want to talk to you. What a spitfire! If only I was a few years older . . ." Gertrud snarled at him. "Or she were a few years younger—what a looker!" Gertrud narrowed her eyes and dismissed him with a tight grin and a shake of her head. "Anywhoo—we are at the club, waiting for you."

"Who's _we_?" He needed to know how many graves to dig.

"That would be me, your mom, and . . . um, oh, Maroni. Almost forgot."

"After today, you had better start running, Butch. Tell Maroni that too. He crossed a line going after my mother." Visions of blood spatter now danced in his head.

"Well, come on down and tell him yourself, Oswald. Oh, hey, he wants you to bring—and these are his words—'that hot brunette who smacked me with the umbrella'. I think we know he is talking about Cassandra. Probably wants to discuss knitting. See you in few." _Click_.

"Son-of-a—he hung up on me," swore Oswald. "They are waiting for us at the club." He replaced the receiver and pivoted to Cassandra. It was a chess move he had hoped to avoid, but had primed himself for the possibility that Maroni would request her presence. It was highly doubtful that Oswald would agree to the strong-armed invitation.

_But should I tell her? I told her I would tell her everything. She has to know. She has to prepare_.

He took a deep breath and held her by her shoulders.

"Maroni asked that I make sure to bring you, but I am not going to do that. He already has my mother; I am not letting him get his hands on my w—." He had to stop; he did not know what to call her. He wanted to say "wife", but he had not placed a ring on her finger yet. He did not want to say "girlfriend"—it sounded so juvenile. He could not say fiancée either, because he had not officially asked her.

He began to blush because he was also oh, so aware of Gabe and Fara in the room.

"Weapons procurer," he finished. "He can't have my weapons procurer."

_Dammit, sometimes he really _was _a coward._


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29

"What happened to not dating your employees?" Cassandra teased, but he could ever so slightly see that right leg of hers start to turn out. Fara and Gabe were tactful in ignoring that comment.

"You are in fact correct, but we must not dally," he grabbed her hand and led them back downstairs where they loaded themselves into the car. "You must not stay here. I will drop you off at the police station."

"No, I am going with you," she stated. "You are completely insane if you think I am going to abandon you in the face of danger."

"Imminent peril," he interjected.

"Whatever. I am not leaving you. Period." Oswald considered her. He would not show his distress. They had his mother and now they wanted his . . . whatever she was, she was his. She belonged to him, and hopefully he belonged to her.

_Okay, then. We are in this together, but Maroni must not see her. _He could not risk that happening. _What if he does see her? What then? I must consider every move._

He had an inkling of what needed to be done. His outline was not complete and depended on outside factors. Owed favors . . . for instance. Still, he had to come up with more . . . fast.

"This is a title I am assigning to you for now—weapons procurer. They must not know that my feelings run deep for you—it will be used against me in a much worse way than if they thought you were a mere employee. I mean, as you can see, they have my mother!" He strapped her into her seatbelt.

"Truthfully," he continued, strapping on his own seatbelt. "They may even use it against _you_, if they thought . . ." he paused and searched her face, "_knew_ how you felt—what you thought—about _me_. That is . . . if . . . because I . . ." he shrugged and glanced sideways at the partition, which was thankfully being closed.

"This is not how I wanted to do this." He sighed and pressed on. "Cassandra, I love you. I have loved you since the day I saw you, and all those thoughts and feelings and opinions only grew stronger and surer with every moment we spent together." He paused. "And every moment we were apart."

He watched her face expectantly and was rewarded instantly.

"I love you. I love you, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot. From the moment I laid eyes on you. Everything I said on the night you left . . ." He closed his eyes and drooped his head, his mouth turned downwards.

"Please don't remind me of my foolishness in _abandoning_ you," he whispered.

_There. I said the word. In its ugly truth._

"A most contemptible decision by which I shall always be haunted," he uttered. "It is like a steel blade through my heart." He heard a click—she had undone her seatbelt and was on his side of the seat, nearly in his lap, no—_in his lap—well _partially _in his lap_. She was doing her best to avoid his right knee, and her continuous readjusting of herself as she tried to sit upon his thigh—or thighs, she kept changing position—was causing a fantastically maddening friction.

He was not sure how much more of this he could take.

_But right now, I'll take it, _he thought—happy to suffer through it. He undid his seatbelt and refastened it around them both, surprised that it fit around their girth, and slid his arms around her. She had stopped moving, to his relief and chagrin, and had her arms around his neck.

"I will do whatever it takes to help you get your mother back. To help you acquire whatever it is you dream," she said softly into his ear.

He had died and gone to heaven. Correction, heaven had come to him.

"I don't date my employees," he said. She looked confused and he suppressed a grin. "I would however date my wife." She blinked a few times, while he held his breath.

_That was quite possibility _the worst_ and _the stupidest_ marriage proposal in the history of all mankind and I will be a blessed man indeed if she grants me mercy and accepts_.

He saw the moment the fog cleared—that she realized what he was asking. The Cheshire grin reappeared on her face and she dove in, adhering her lips to his. He thought now might be a good time to try that tongue thing and opened his mouth taking control of the kiss.

Nope. The moment was wrong. He did not realize what kind of effect that was going to have on him. He felt it _everywhere_.

In the middle of a rescue mission to save his mother and possibly . . . probably . . . definitely unleash a ton of bloodshed while keeping others he cared for alive and—cross fingers—with minimal to no injuries, including himself, was not the right time to indulge in a wet, warm, seductive, mindboggling kiss that curled his toes. Yes, even the ones on his bad leg.

He groaned as he reluctantly pulled back from her. That did not work—she was pressing herself against him . . . _into _him, still attached to his mouth and tightening her grip around his neck.

_Yaaay! A strong woman who knows what she waaants! _His brain sang. His closed eyes did nothing to deter them from rolling back in his head. This was proving to be a challenge.

He placed his hands on either side of her face and removed her from his lips, but only a little. This time _she_ groaned and he felt guilty.

_Really, I would be a terrible person to deprive her of a kiss. If the woman wants to kiss me, let the woman kiss me._

So he reapplied himself to her face.

Nope. Gotta stop. Still gotta plan a plan. _Good grief, what has happened to my vocabulary_?

"Wait," he mumbled around her mouth. "Wait a minute . . ." She granted him respite and he pulled back to gaze at her. She looked as if she had just woken from a dream.

"Is that a 'yes'?" he asked, catching his breath. His heart was hammering in his chest and it felt like an electrical current was charging through every vein, bone, and pore in his body.

Her eyes began to focus and she raised one eyebrow.

"Was that a proposal?" she smirked. He laughed.

"Indubitably! Albeit, a dreadful one."

"In that case, the answer is 'yes'! Yes!" she exclaimed. "Of course, a million times 'yes'!" She seemed perch to dive back into a kiss and Oswald had resigned himself to being a weak and terrible son for letting her do it, when she suddenly stopped and declared, "I have an idea for a weapon."

Oswald's brows shot up, he was intrigued. "Go on," he encouraged, still recovering and grateful she was initiating self-control . . . but also really, _really_ disappointed.

"I realize it's my first day on the job," she joked, "And hope I'm not kissing up to the boss—oh, well, I guess it's too late for that—people will talk, but anyway." Oswald chuckled. "You know how we would tinker with the broken contraptions in the basement?"

He nodded and acknowledged he did, curious as to where this was going.

"What is everyone used to seeing you with—that they would not remove from you even if they frisked you? Something they wouldn't suspect?"

"Did I ever mention I hate riddles?"

"Your umbrella!" she exclaimed, ignoring him. "It always threatens rain in Gotham—_makes me think this place has been cursed_—so it would not be unexpected for you to carry an umbrella daily. Even on a clear day, you would still need to use it for balance. What if we weaponize it? Not just one umbrella, but a whole trove?" She held her arms open like an assistant in a magic act. "What do you think? I'm a genius. I know." She nodded her head.

What was it he had told Jeb? Looks and brains; brains and beauty; intelligence, cleverness, and _ohmyword have you _seen _her_?

"I think I've got the best wife _ever_!" he proclaimed.


	30. Interlude: Oswald's Letter to Cassandra

Hello, readers. I have had to take an unexpected brief hiatus, but will have something posted as early as next week. In the meantime, I thought you romantics, hopeful cynics, and dream-infused realists might like to know what Oswald wrote in his letter to Cassandra—the one he gave her on the night he left the farm. I wrote this a while back and had intended for it to make a cameo in a future chapter; however, I decided that since I had not updated in a few days, I would reveal its contents—doing so will not spoil the reason for its appearance further into the story. I will begin updating again soon. Thank you for your continued interest and patience!

My dearest Cassandra,

Please forgive my boldness in addressing you with a salutation of deepest affection. I know it is improper, and my brashness stems from the knowledge that I shall never have the honor of seeing you again. This allows me to speak freely.

The goodwill extended to me by you and your uncle will not be forgotten. I am forever and joyfully in your debt. To owe you _anything and all_ is a bond from which I do not beg freedom. This paltry sum I have enclosed is nowhere near the gratitude that is owed to you.

As I write this letter, I can feel my spirit ripping to pieces as one would rend a page out of a journal and continue to tear the papyrus until there is nothing left but shreds. I ask that you forgive me for my abrupt departure, but a devil has no part of heaven. I do not think you a saint, but saintly you are, with all your perfect flaws. Only a mad man would put another human being upon a pedestal—and it is unwise and unfair for me to do so—_but know then I am mad_! Perhaps that day might come when I shall catch you, whenever the pedestal collapses or when you lose your balance, as you have caught me, for I have truly fallen. _Ha! See here how my foolish folly and vain hope betrays me for I know that blessed day will not come!_

There is so much I yearn for you to know, my treasured friend. I could combine all the love songs and poems of longing and sonnets of pledges and undying loyalty, and still it would not be enough, it would not even touch the tip of the iceberg in expressing my thought, my opinion, my adoration for you.

Please humor me by remaining where you are, safe—near your swamp where I shall imagine you sneaking away with the frogs during the summer, and lament that I shall never bear witness to your nightly excursions. I ask this of you not only for your welfare, but for the well-being of my own state of mind.

I apologize for being so insolent, _but I could not keep silent any longer!_ I do not need you in order for me to merely exist, although I am convinced I need you in order for me to truly live. _See how well I play the jester!_ Tuck away my imprudent rambles, and please pray for _your Pablo_, should you ever spare him a thought, and—yes, know that I am _yours_—utterly . . . helplessly . . .

Always.


	31. Chapter 30

Chapter 30

Exhausted they arrived at Oswald's. Butch had received plenty of sleep the night before, not having to come into work until that afternoon, but The Four Musketeers had been awake for a day and nearly an entire night and it was showing in their features and affecting their brain functioning, including their reflexes. Butch and Maroni—and Maroni's crew, no doubt—would not have a problem overpowering them or outthinking them on the spot. Anything they needed to do to get themselves out of this situation was something that would need to be thought out and preplanned. They hoped they had played their cards right before arriving at the club. They could use a full house.

Oswald had asked Gabe to take Cassandra in the back way. She had protested, but he insisted, reminding her that when he was with her on the farm, he knew it was better she took the lead in any matters that had arisen there, just as he needed to do it now. Just until she was better acclimated to the underbelly of Gotham and the vermin that reside there. A far cry from the fields and the flowers and the music back on Cassandra's lost farm.

_If I get out of this with all my fingers, I will have to tickle the ivories for her again. _The memory of playing the upright piano while she sat beside him on the bench, turning the pages to music he already knew by heart, gave him renewed resolve.

He was betting that Maroni and his men would be in the lounge guarding the entrances and exits from there, but would not be watching the very back entrance. Fara was to accompany him. His mother was in immediate danger and he might need her brawn.

Butch greeted the two of them as if welcoming long-lost friends to a cheery Christmas meal.

"Oswald! Fara! Sorry to keep you guys up. I am sure you are both exhausted."

"Where is my mother?" Oswald was in no mood for frivolities.

"Patience, Oswald. Where is Gabe and Cassandra?"

Oswald shook his head. "Not until you tell me where my mother is." Butch sighed and rose from the barstool on which he had been resting. Fara stepped forward and immediately had three guns pointed at her.

"These are Maroni's boys. Sorry, they need to frisk you. Both of you. But, I'll tell you what, Oswald, for old time's sake, I'll be happy to remove that knife from you myself—in honor of Fish." Oswald clenched his jaw, his lips forming a hard line in his granite-like face as he held his arms away from his sides to accommodate Butch's search. He hated departing with his blade and resented the disregard in which it was carelessly tossed onto the bar counter. Maroni's thugs removed a compactable spear from Fara and threw it up there as well. Butch let him keep his umbrella.

_How charitable of you_, he thought without grinning.

"Satisfied?" Oswald spat. Butch shrugged. "Where's my mother?" Oswald repeated. Butch pointed back over his shoulder with his thumb.

"She is getting ready to entertain us with a musical number. _Her_ idea. She's backstage."

"Who hit her and where is that man?"

"Oh, you don't have to worry about him, does he, Don Maroni?" From out of the shadows, hidden under the black lights, stepped Maroni.

"I am not a total rogue," said the Don. "The cop who hit your mother—"

"It was a cop?" Oswald interrupted him. His nostrils flared. How could he manipulate this information to continue to win favors from James? Or should he just file it away to use against the department at a later date?

Maroni stopped and looked at him, tilting his head.

"You done, or are you going to interrupt me again?" he asked Oswald who shook his head.

_Humility first, revenge later._ Sometimes the long con was the most pride draining.

"I'll remind you, Penguin, that it was _you_ who swore upon your mother's health that you were loyal to me. You remember that? So whatever happened to her was a result of your false oath, although any proper gangster—I mean—business man . . ." he corrected. "Would never hit a broad, especially someone's mother. So I shot him. I wish I could say he is soaking up the ambiance, but as you can see . . ." He turned in the direction of the dead cop who was slumped in one of the booths, blood seeping into the leather seat. "The ambiance is soaking up _him_." He laughed at himself. Because he was funny. "Tsk. Such a shame—right after you had completed remodeling."

"What do you want? Why are you here? Butch, you will be sorry for betraying me. Betraying Don Falcone."

"Ah," said Maroni. "Now you know how it feels. To trust someone and have that trust taken away from you." He took another stepped forward toward Oswald.

Fara looked ready to jump, but there were simultaneous clicks from the guns that reminded her she had not been invited to move yet. Oswald knew that if she could get to them, she would break each man's back as if it were a toothpick. He would be happy to clean his teeth with their bones.

"First, I just wanted to give you this, personally." Maroni hit him full on in the nose. "That's for your disloyalty." Oswald cried out, but straightened up. The Don hit him again. "And that's for stealing my booze. Ow . . ." Maroni shook his hand and rubbed the knuckles. "Who would have known that such a tiny little guy would have such a hard nose."

Blood was running from Oswald's nose and he reached up to wipe it away with his sleeve only succeeding in smearing it across his face. He was tired of being so accustomed to receiving this abuse. So much maltreatment over the years had numbed him into thinking that it could only be expected. That is, until he was in charge. Then he would no longer be on the receiving end; he would dole out the cruelty like beaded necklaces at a Mardi Gras parade.

_You will so pay for that, Maroni. Twice._

"Hey, boss, look what we got here." Oswald's attention was turned to the figures in the back near the stage now making their way towards him and the mobster. Gabe and Cassandra were walking in front of two men, respectively, who had their guns directed on them.

Oswald slumped. _Really? Was it too much to ask that they not be discovered_?

Now more than before, he hoped the plan he had worked out would save them, or at the very least, buy them time.

Cassandra gasped when she saw Oswald's bloodied face, and he saw her start as if to run to him, but a subtle motion of his head and a flicker in his eyes reminded her to play it cool, but he could see her eyes starting to shine.

If he had ever believed that they could on occasion read each other's minds, now would be a good time for that extrasensory perception. He tried sending her mental encouragement.

_Hold it in, my love. Hold it in. You can do this, Cassandra_. _I am all right. Weary, but all right._

She seemed to get the message because she recovered her composure. Oswald could sense her anxiety and knew she wanted to either punch Maroni or set him on fire.

Gabe was busy getting searched by Butch who removed a gun, his other gun, a blade attached to his shin, and brass knuckles. These joined the items already collected on the bar.

"Quite the assortment," said Maroni. "Glad to see you brought the little nymph who attacked me with the umbrella. Creative, by the way. I like that. But it won't grant you any absolution." He studied Cassandra slowly from her face to her toes. Cassandra felt like she was being invisibly licked and she shuddered inwardly.

"Maroni, the lady who gave you that sweet uppercut is my weapons procurer, Cassandra—" Maroni waved Oswald's introduction away.

"Come here, sweetheart," he said, motioning for her to come to him. Cassandra detected the increased tension in Oswald and saw his fingers twitch. "_I'm_ not going to hurt you. Wouldn't dream of it." Maroni grinned. "I'm just going to frisk you." He said leering at her.

"No!" exclaimed Oswald. "She is unarmed. Look at her. Where would she put a weapon?"

Maroni pursed his lips and nodded. Her dress was not slut tight, but it did fit her form. Still. "You make a good point, Penguin, but one cannot be too careful."

Cassandra started to say something to reassure Oswald, but then remembered that she was playing the part of mere employee, so she approached Maroni with all the lack of confidence she could muster and stood in front of him. He circled her like a lion would circle a gazelle, occasionally looking up to glance at Oswald. A sly, slow grin stretched across Maroni's face.

"Seems a lot of concern toward someone who is only a lowly employee, Oswald." Oswald relaxed the muscles in his jaw, but his eyes betrayed him.

Cassandra concentrated on watching Oswald. He was thinking; she could see it, but he was also panicked, and raging.

He was oh, so raging.

Those ice blue eyes turned to cold fire when Maroni bent and placed his hands on one of Cassandra's ankles and began a slow journey upwards. Cassandra clinched her fist, ready to pummel him but was afraid he would only take it out on Oswald, and she did not want more harm to come to him.

Maroni had just reached the top of her knee and was about to enter skirt territory when his arm was hit by an umbrella, no—a spear, no—an umbrella with a spear for a handle. Maroni let loose a stream of expletives and grabbed his arm, while everyone else in the room trained their guns on Oswald.

"Don't shoot him!" yelled Maroni. If this happened, he would start a war with Falcone and that was the last thing he wanted.

The umbrella spear had torn Maroni's 100% imitation cashmere coat and a scrap of his striped shirt. A portion lay bayonetted to the floor. There was a slight flesh wound and Maroni squeezed his arm, drawing fresh blood then turned his attention to the umbrella. He would have admired the weapon's brilliance if he had not been so damn mad. And startled.

Despite the threat from the guns pointed at him, Oswald was pleased—both with himself for his aim, and with Cassandra for devising this weapon using Fara's compact spear together with his umbrella in such a short amount of time. Fara hoarded these spears the way someone might collect salt and pepper shakers. So there were more than enough to spare.

Those years of Cassandra tinkering in the basement had really paid off—it was something he had grown up doing himself—and Oswald was glad Cassandra had invited him to be privy to that, even though it had only been for a few weeks. On rainy days when they were consigned to the basement, they would create brass and pewter mechanisms and then trade them with each other to make any necessary additions or corrections. It was like finishing each other sentences.

He could see the weapon was not quite secure, parts of it starting to come apart, but really, with only a few minutes to work this out—the prototype was awesome. The element of surprise was poetry.

"You just don't know when to quit, do you, Oswald?" Oswald raised his eyebrows.

_So you finally decided I was worth calling by name now, have you?_

"I don't quit until I have what I want," Oswald responded nonchalantly, the blood drying under his nose was starting to itch.

He looked at Maroni's bleeding arm and snickered. There was no way in any universe or bizarre reality where Maroni—or anybody else for that matter—would place his hands on Cassandra in such an intimate, boorish way. His _own hands_ had not even been there yet, and he would happily liberate all limbs from their owners if anyone ever tried that stunt again.

"I need the broad," Maroni said motioning for Cassandra. She was immediately grabbed by two of Maroni's men.

"Over my dead body!" shouted Oswald, taking a step forward, paying no mind to the firearms that followed his every move.

"That can be arranged!" Maroni shouted back before stealing a glance to Butch.

"Sorry, Oswald, but I meant it when I said would not play second fiddle to anyone. That also meant you," shrugged Butch. "But I fixed this nice drink for you and Cassandra—sorry doll. It's called Umbrella Man, which seems fitting on so many levels—a reminder of where you've been, your crutch, your weapon . . . drink up, Buddy." Oswald eyed the blue concoction, but made no move to take it. "Truthfully, it won't kill you. Just added a little something to make you guys easier to transport."

"Transport to where?"

"Well, Penguin," sneered Maroni. Oswald was disappointed, but not shocked that he was back to name-calling. "I enjoyed your creativity with photographing me next to a dead girl; I thought I would repay the favor."

The picture was forming in Oswald's mind. Maroni intended to murder Cassandra and stage it to look like Oswald had done it. Maroni continued speaking.

"Additionally, I must commend you on your choice of women you surround yourself with. Each one is lovely to look at and fierce to contend with." Oswald winced at him ending both sentences with a preposition—the same one for Oxford's sake, but he had other things more pressing to worry about than bad grammar, and Maroni was not shutting up yet.

"I used your mother as bait to get you down here, but it was the dark-haired one I was after. Thanks for delivering her to me. Oh, and I will be keeping this as well. Ingenious. _She_ do this?" He jutted this thumb towards Cassandra, but Oswald made no move. "Yeah, I bet she did this. After all, she is your—what was that? Weapons procurer?" Maroni looked back to the umbrella and shook his head, laughing.

Oswald was sweating profusely and it was not because he was wearing a velvet suit. He had used the umbrella spear that Maroni was now holding and admiring; he had erroneously armed the Don with their last hope of getting out alive, or at least in less than a few pieces. There had to be another way to win this battle, but nothing fresh was coming to him.

_I refuse to lose this match_, he thought. Yet, he was depending on his final option, the play that had already been placed in motion—and they were running out of time.

"What about what you said earlier about not harming women? Maybe we could make some kind of deal—" Oswald asked. Maroni was thinking as Gertrude walked on stage.

"I'm ready, Sal!" she called.

"Sal?" questioned Oswald. Maroni grinned and shrugged.

"What can I say? Women love me."

"Which brings me back to you not hurting them." Gertrud was tapping on the microphone and rewarding the room with feedback.

"Huh. Not like Falcone, right?" Oswald knew he was referring to Liza, whom Falcone had strangled upon learning that she was actually an informant for Fish. "So that's the kind of guy you want to work for?"

"I never said I agreed with what he did. I was not even in the room. I had no idea he would hurt that poor girl."

"I think I'll let you choose," said Maroni. Oswald blinked.

"What?" he asked.

"Your mother or your girl. Make a decision and then drink up." Oswald looked to his mother who was peering into the near empty room, blinded by the stage lights.

"Oswald? Is that you?" In her pale clothing with her light hair, she looked like an exquisite golden doll.

"It's me, Mom! Are you okay?"

"Oh, yes. I am now, but I wasn't at first," she scrunched her face. "Some mean nasty man gave me this." She pointed to her face, but it did no good. Oswald was too far away to make out the bruising under her eye. She continued, "But that nice man, Sal Maroni, took care of that rascal for me. Such the gentleman, that Sal." Maroni raised his eyebrows and snickered.

"So, what's it going to be, Penguin?"

Oswald looked at Cassandra. He felt sick. Time was up. The hourglass was empty. But alcohol was flammable, and his _sweetheart_ needed something to burn.

"I think I will just kill you, Maroni," he snarled.


	32. Chapter 31

Chapter 31

"No one is going to be killing anyone!"

Oswald almost cried with delight upon hearing James' voice. Maroni jolted like he had just put his finger in a live socket and motioned for his men to put their guns away.

Oswald was attacked by Cassandra who nearly leapt into his arms, bowling him over. He had to steady himself against the bar and then against her. She made no sound but a steady stream of silent tears scrolled over her cheeks, finally allowed release. She wiped them away and used them to remove the blood partially dried on Oswald's face. He was speechless.

"Is there a problem, detectives?" Maroni asked, choosing to ignore Cassandra's flight and Oswald's apparent checkout. James and Bullock had been followed in by four other police officers.

"Maroni, wherever you go, you create a problem," said Bullock. Maroni chuckled politely.

"Consider it job security," he responded.

"Good one."

"Now explain this," said James, holding up his phone. On it was a picture that made Maroni flush. It was of him and the deceased waitress. "Do you recognize anyone in this photo?"

"I was set up by Penguin!" he shouted, pointing at Oswald who feigned surprised.

"We have just returned from being questioned at the precinct and are exhausted! Then, we return here to be assailed by Maroni and Thugs 'R" Us only to be threatened. Really, we could appreciate some sleep," Oswald said. "I certainly do not know anything about any photograph or who took it or who sent it."

"Well, there is one way for me to find out, and that's to call back the number." After a delay, there was ringing from Butch's jacket. James spun in his direction.

"That's impossible," Butch said, then looked at Oswald who smirked as he deftly recovered his knife from the counter and slipped it back into his pocket. Butch narrowed his eyes at him.

"You . . ."

Oswald shrugged. It had not been a challenge to slip the universal phone into Butch's jacket while he frisked Oswald. The picture had been saved to both the memory card and the phone, and Oswald had sent the picture to James while in route to the lounge.

James fished the phone out of Butch's pocket and opened it.

"We got a match, Harv," he told Bullock.

"Hey, I was set up by Oswald too!" protested Butch. James raised an eyebrow and looked from him to Maroni and then back to him.

"Really?" he asked. "Both of you? They're giving you a lot of credit, Oswald."

"I know," he said, grinning and nodding his head. "I must confess, I am flabbergasted and abundantly flattered."

"Um, chief?" Bullock had walked over to one of the other officers and now gestured for James to come over to a booth. "Looks like we've got another problem."

Suddenly Gertrud's voice was heard loud and clear over the microphone.

"Oh, that nice man, Maroni, shot that cop. He was defending my honor," she announced. Oswald beamed and started laughing. He really did have the best mom.

James pinched the bridge of his nose.

"All right, I should take you all back in," he said to groans from the four conspirators. "But I'm not, not all of you. Maroni, you and your men are coming with us. So are you, Butch. You four . . ." he paused as Gertrud cleared her throat, "five . . . will be watched by two of my best men who are _fully armed_. . ."

"And the coroner is already on the way," interjected Bullock.

"So I suggest that you all stay put and get plenty of rest because there will be a lot of questions asked later this afternoon. You understand me, Cobblepot?"

"Clearly, James, and I thank you—as I am sure we all do—for the reprieve," said Oswald as he and Cassandra clung to each other.

"As for the rest of you," James addressed Maroni, Butch, and the other five men. "Enjoy your next few hours in the city jail."

"You know I will be out in one," sneered Maroni.

"Not if Harvey Dent has anything to say about it. But we need to get the questioning done first, and that is not happening until this afternoon," said James. "Oh, hey, good luck with your pal Loeb. I'm sure he will let you out immediately." James could not resist a snicker. Loeb's hands had been pretty much tied since James and Bullock had discovered Miriam and her little secret. Still, this was Gotham and the tide could change at any moment.

"If you do get out," said James, escorting Maroni to the unmarked car, "I highly suggest you refrain from leaving town or visiting Oswald's. I would hate to see you accidently maimed by a well-aimed bullet."

"No you wouldn't," said Bullock. James just grinned. "But you see, Maroni," Bullock continued. "That's what makes James such a nice guy, he would rather see you alive, but hurt whereas I would not care if you died, because I'm not a nice guy."

Maroni grunted. "James—a nice guy, huh?"

"Yeah, what of it?" asked Bullock.

"That's exactly the word Mrs. Cobblepot used to describe me," remarked Maroni.

"Well, then, you can imagine what _I'm_ like," said Bullock.


	33. Chapter 32

Chapter 32

"Mom, are you all right?" Oswald brought Cassandra over with him to the stage. He needed to see his mother; he needed to be sure she was all right. Maroni and Butch were incapacitated for now, but he did not know for how much longer. They were still in danger; Maroni could return at any moment, but he felt a little securer knowing two of Gotham's finest were guarding the club. As long as they were not on the take, there should no problem.

Mrs. Cobblepot eyed Cassandra suspiciously.

"Mom, let me see your eye." One of the officers had guided her off the stage after she asked if she would no longer be singing this evening, although technically, it was morning, and Oswald led her to a table and chairs, sitting her down. He leaned in to take a good look, his mouth tightening until it seemed like his lips would disappear entirely.

Gabe knew instinctively to bring an icepack. While Oswald held it against her face, Mrs. Cobblepot noticed the smeared blood on her son's upper lip.

"What is this?" she asked. "Who did this? Those bullies."

"Mom, I'm all right. I want to check on you." She turned her attention back to Cassandra and wrinkled her nose.

"Who is _this_?" Cassandra picked up on her talent of being courteously snooty.

_Oy vey_, she thought. _I'm going to have my hands full with this one._ She remembered how her own mother was solidly protective and decided to give Oswald's mom the benefit of the doubt.

Oswald continued to inspect his mother for further damage, examining her hairline and running his fingers over face, moving her head from side to side searching for anymore bruising or marks. Satisfied there were none, he leaned back in the chair he had taken opposite Gertrud, handing over icepack duties to her. Cassandra was sitting beside him.

"Mom," he said, beaming. Gertrud watched the light in her child. She knew what was coming and she was jealous. "Mom, I want you to meet Cassandra—"

"I'm Mrs. Gertrud Kapelput," Gertrud interrupted, holding out her hand as if she was the queen of England. Cassandra was not sure if she were to bow over it, curtesy, or kiss all the rings on her fingers. She opted for a semi-bow slash handshake.

"Pleased to meet you," she said. She wanted to gush about how wonderful she thought Oswald was, but was convinced that to this woman's ears, it would not sound sincere. Still, she adored Oswald and told his mother how much she enjoyed his company, offering Mrs. Cobblepot her best smile, while biting the inside of her cheek.

"Cassandra took care of me while I was away. Truly, I would not have survived if it had not been for her kindness." Squeezing her hand he offered up a lopsided smile. "Oh, and I believe this belongs to you," he said, unbuttoning his jacket and digging around in his vest to retrieve Mrs. Cobblepot's ring.

"Ah, yes, my beautiful ring. You gave me this—you remember? Mother's Day so many years ago?" After setting the compress on the table, Gertrud slid the ring on and admired it, splaying her fingers and holding her hand up to the light. "You were always such a good boy, Oswald," she sang. "Loves his mama." This last phrase was directed toward Cassandra.

Oswald held his hand out to his mother, his elbow resting on the table. She took it and grinned at Cassandra.

"As any worthy man should," Cassandra responded. Oswald turned his head towards her and offered his other hand. Cassandra clasped it and returned Mrs. Cobblepot's smile. Gertrud gave a feminine grunt.

"My two favorite girls, meeting each other at last. Am I a lucky man, or what?"

The atmosphere in the club had become increasingly animated as medical staff and more law enforcement showed up. They had heard that one of their own was down. The crime scene unit was there as well and so was Dr. Thompkins. Serious-faced individuals gathered evidence and placed impossible-to-see clues into plastic bags and took oodles of photographs. A few gladly helped themselves to the bar, overlooking the fact they were on duty.

Gabe started a tab and handed it off to the bartender. He could not wait to send the bill to the GCPD accounting department.

Oswald was distracted by someone in a white lab coat spraying an acidic-smelling liquid on the booth previously occupied by the dead cop, whose body now rested upon a gurney.

"Hey! Don't use that on these seats—they are made from imported Italian leather!" He started to approach the person wiping them down, but stopped himself before walking off. "Excuse me ladies, business never ends," he said as he rolled his eyes, but Cassandra knew he fed on this. If Oswald were not in charge of something somewhere, he would fall apart.

"So, you're the woman who intends to steal my son away from me?" Mrs. Cobblepot's steely eyes met hers.

_That look could freeze water_, Cassandra thought.

"I'm not stealing him, Mrs. Kapelput. No one could ever _steal _him from you. He cares deeply about you. You're his mother. He does not want to lose you. I should know; I have not had one in such a long time. " She saw Mrs. Cobblepot flinch and her face softened—the same way a porcupine is "soft" when it puts its quills down.

"Your mother is dead?" she asked, playing with the fabric at the front of her blouse. Cassandra imagined her petting an evil hairless kitty.

She nodded. "Yes, ma'am. She was wonderful. It would be nice to have that motherly influence again." She was telling the truth, but embellishing it for Gertrud. "I have lost both parents and an uncle as well."

"How careless of you," she said, and then quickly before Cassandra could react to the snark she queried, "So you have no family left?"

Cassandra tightened her lips and shook her head before replying with a terse "no". She understood the woman did not like her, but did she have to be so mean?

She could see that Gertrud was pondering what she had just told her, rather intently, actually, and it was unnerving.

"Pity," was all she said, as Oswald reappeared and sat back down.

"How are my lovely ladies doing? May I get anyone a nightcap? Or, since it's morning—a morningcap?" he asked, pleased with his joke. Both women grinned, but declined.

"I don't drink," Gertrud shared with her. Cassandra got the impression that this revelation was not true. Probably something to do with the empty sherry bottle back at the apartment.

Cassandra yawned and covered her face. She could not keep her lids open another minute. Fatigue draped over her like a heavy blanket. Oswald was relaying a story about Cassandra to his mother who was doing everything she could to smile and nod approvingly when she really looked like someone who had just smelled a fart but was trying to be polite about it.

_Wonderful, _she thought_. Just when I believed I had him to myself again, another obstacle has revealed itself _—_Gertrud, the friendly shark. _

Cassandra was jealous. Again. And she hated it. She never realized she was such a jealous person. It was bothersome. Had she always been this possessive?

_Really, Cassandra. Being jealous of a man's mother. How childish_. But it was creeping into her spirit and the only way she knew to tame it for now was to go to bed, or possibly light a match, and since she did not see any matches . . .

It was obvious that Oswald and his mother had a strange bond, yet she could not seem to concentrate on that right now. She was too tired. Another yawn snuck upon her.

"It was lovely to meet you," she lied. "I'm just sorry it was under these circumstances. Now, if you two will excuse me, I really do need to get some sleep." She rose from her chair and Oswald stood with her.

"I as well," he said. "Mother, let me show you to a room." He knew Fara and Gabe were already familiar with were to stay and the location of the keys, so he did not concern himself with them. It seemed Fara had already gone to bed because she was absent from the room.

Gertrud stood and attached herself to her son stroking his jacket lapels.

"Would it be okay if the two of us stayed together? _Just_ the two of us?" she said pointedly. "It has been such a trying day. I have had such a fright and was violently attacked." She pointed to her face. Oswald looked slightly uncomfortable.

"Now, Mom, I can sit with you until you fall asleep, but I also need my rest."

"I knew it!" she said, shoving Oswald away from her. "She has seduced you! The wanton woman!"

"No," he said impatiently. "She actually saved my life, and has been nothing but proper." Oswald cast a knowing glance towards Cassandra followed by a subtle wink.

_Okay, maybe that last thing he said was not entirely true_, Cassandra mused. _But, so what_?

She could not help but grin and imagined Oswald's mouth on hers again. He saw her eyes dilate, and she watched him blush.

"Hussy!" yelled Gertrud, pointing at Cassandra. Oswald was becoming openly angry.

"Mother, _please_! I will not have you speaking about her that way!" His eyes had darkened and his mother faux-cowered, the way a naughty puppy would after being caught ripping up a new pair of shoes.

"Mrs. Kapelput, I can _assure_ you that my _integrity _is _fully intact_," said Cassandra, sure Gertrud would get the message. Oswald did and his knees nearly buckled. Gertrud disregarded Cassandra, deciding to sweet-talk her son instead.

"Please forgive me, Ozzie. I just worry about my one and only son. My baby boy." She patted his face. He took one of her hands and kissed it.

"I know, Mom, but Cassandra really is an angel and it hurts me to hear you utter these insulting and untrue comments about her." He spoke gently to her. "You are being completely unfair. Truly, Mother, I wanted to wait and tell you in a different setting, but well . . ." He lowered his voice. "This is no way for a mother to treat her future daughter-in-law."

Cassandra's eyes widened. She had not expected him to break the news to her so soon or in this manner. He had not consulted her. It was as if he was pursuing some sort of frantic deadline.

_So, Mommie Dearest, how are you taking this_?

Cassandra was not sure there was a color in nature to describe the spectrum of hues that flashed across Mrs. Cobblepot's face.

"You're getting married?" she growled. Cassandra waited for the horns to sprout.

"Soon," nodded Oswald. "I hope we will have your blessing. We might even elope, although I wanted to do this properly and show her off to the world." He looked to Cassandra.

"I would be happy to marry you right now—this very instant. I cannot wait to be your wife." She took his hand and leaned into his face. "But _I_ would be the one showing _you_ off to the world."

Mrs. Cobblepot rolled her eyes and grabbed Cassandra's left hand out of Oswald's grasp, demanding to know why she was not wearing an engagement ring if this were true. Oswald was immediately embarrassed and looked down at the ground.

"I know," he said. "I have done _everything _wrong. I know! But circumstances dictated the decisions that I had to make!" The anxiety in his voice caused its resonance to go up a notch.

Cassandra reached for him again, furious that Mrs. Cobblepot had jerked her hand away from Oswald. She decided not to address it out of concern that it may cause him further undue stress. He took a deep breath. "I can only hope it will not be a bane hanging over our happy union," he implored Cassandra.

She placed a kiss on his cheek to sooth him. "You've done nothing wrong."

His black bangs partially obscured his eyes, and Cassandra brushed them back across his forehead, gently reminding him that he did not always have to make the decisions on his own. It would be an adjusted for both of them, and she understood that.

The glare from Mrs. Cobblepot reminded Cassandra of Saturday-morning cartoons where steam would blast from the ears of an angry character. She thought about hanging her silk blouses on Mrs. Cobblepot's ears to get the wrinkles out.

"Doesn't choose wisely, doesn't ask his mother, doesn't have a ring . . . Ah! What would your father say?" She threw her hands up in the air. Cassandra heard Oswald inhale sharply and saw his eyes harden, but his tone stayed soft.

"Mother, there is too much to discuss tonight. I am haggard and can barely think clearly, and Cassandra needs her rest, as do you. Let's retire for the evening and start again refreshed in a few hours. What do you say?" She neither answered nor looked at him. "Please? I implore you."

Gertrud shrugged and allowed herself to be steered to one of the rooms on the second floor, but cracked her door open in order to spy into the hallway. She saw Oswald and Cassandra linger by a door and then enter a room together. Gertrud harrumphed in disapproval, pursing her lips.

_Sit with me indeed_, she thought as she shut and locked the door.


	34. Chapter 33

Chapter 33

Oswald pressed Cassandra against the open door where they continued to share kisses as frequently as they shared yawns. One of his hands was clutching the back of her head, entwined in a fistful of her hair, while his other hand was still lingering on the doorknob.

He liked the way it felt when she smiled through a kiss and their teeth would clack together.

Like a sticker being pulled from wax paper, Oswald removed himself from her embrace. He needed to sit with his mother awhile since he had told her he would and asked Cassandra if it would be all right if he came back to her once his mom had fallen asleep. Reassured, he promised not to wake her upon his return.

Sneaking in one last smooch, Oswald was pleasantly surprised when he turned his back on Cassandra and she grabbed him by the collar of his jacket, pulling it down and off in one swift move, the way a magician yanks a tablecloth from underneath table settings. He paused, mouth gaping, and gave her a delighted backward glance, wide eyes sparkling.

"I'll just keep this with me," she said, as she buried her nose in the soft fabric and wiggled her eyebrows. He seriously reconsidered staying, but fought the urge away, damning himself for giving his word to his mom.

Within a couple of minutes, Mrs. Cobblepot heard a knock at her door.

"Mother, it's me." Gertrud took her time unlocking the door and letting Oswald inside. She was pouting and he knew he would have to humor her, seeking approval. He asked again about her face, having fetched another cold compress and some pills to lessen any pain. She barely acknowledged him as she took them and tucked herself into bed.

Refusing to speak to him beyond a few terse words hurt.

Giving up on winning back any favor tonight, he sighed and turned off the overhead light before settling into a chair directly across from where she sulked. He leaned his head back on the cushioned upholstery and slipped into a fitful slumber. Just as light was starting to sneak into the room, he was startled awake.

Something had jolted him from sleep; something he had been dreaming but could not recall. It had scared him enough to bring him to wakefulness, increasing his heart rate as he gripped the armrests. After taking a few deep gulps of air, he started to relax and that dull fatigue settled back into his aching body. He could not remember what he had dreamt, but the residue of an overwhelming sense of loss permeated through him like a virus.

He rubbed his eyes and regarded his mother in the dim light. He was not sure what he was going to do about her rudeness towards Cassandra besides rebuke her when she did it.

Thinking of Cassandra, he quietly he pushed himself up from the chair and closed the curtains in his mother's room, blocking the dawn and inviting the night back inside.

He made his way back down the hallway to Cassandra careful not to make a sound as he entered the room. A stream of light muscled its way through a gap in-between a pair of curtains, presenting Oswald with a hint of Cassandra's form while she slept. She was resting on her side, her back to the door.

A slight sound, little more than a whisper, captured Oswald's attention. He shuffled to the dresser and picked up a waxy leaf that had just fallen from the potted gardenia and absentmindedly dragged it back and forth across his mouth before dangling it over the trashcan. For whatever reason, he could not bring himself to throw it away and instead stuffed it into his vest pocket.

He looked at the white flowers and reached out to touch one, then remembered that Cassandra had said to avoid touching the petals. Doing so shortened the life of the bloom.

Breathing in deeply, Oswald closed his eyes and bid the heavy, aromatic fragrance of the plant to find a home within his nostrils. Its scent was blissfully dizzying.

_We need more of these flowers in Gotham_.

He exhaled slowly and peered at the clock on the nightstand. The illuminated numerals assured him there were several hours to go before he had to gather everyone up again and head for the police department. But he set the alarm just in case.

Oswald readjusted the curtains to keep the room free of the harsh light of day and removed his wingtips and vest before slipping into bed beside Cassandra. The sheets, cool at first, gradually increased with warmth the closer he scooted toward her. The awkward movement heightened the soreness of his leg and he paused, but only for a moment. The pain was worth the destination.

_Do not forget to buy satin or silk sheets for this room_, he made a mental note to himself. _That is, until I transform this entire floor into a home for Cassandra and me . . ._

_Cassandra and me . . ._

Moving slowly and being careful not to wake her, he continued to edge over until he was right next to her, pressed up against her back—_spooning, I think it is called_—molding into her form as if they were a living yin and yang symbol.

She was soft and smelled sweet, inviting delicious thoughts to roam through Oswald's mind. He leaned over her, wanting so desperately to place his lips upon her cheek, the back of her neck . . . but was afraid he might wake her and they still needed to have their wits about them this afternoon. Besides, he had told her he would do his best not to disturb her when he returned, and he intended to keep his word—except . . .

_Lots of kisses might wake her up, but surely not one, _he reasoned_. One kiss would not hurt._ Using his elbow and opposite arm for support, he balanced himself over her and placed a light kiss upon her cheek.

A sigh escaped from her lips and he froze.

_Oops_.

He waited a heartbeat. And then two.

Seeing that she remained still, her breathing steady, he slowly encircled her with one arm while laying his head on the pillow where hers was already resting. Briefly, he had to release her to brush unruly strands of her hair aside because they tickled his nose.

This made him happy.

_Cassandra and me_ . . . he repeated in his head, over and over—his sacred mantra—until he fell into a more restful sleep.


	35. Chapter 34

Chapter 34

She knew she was unlovable.

It was not that she sat around throwing private pity parties—but when she did, butane and cookie dough were usually involved. She also did not linger on the issue 24/7, in fact, whole days would pass by without her giving the matter another thought. Cassandra would not dare entertain it for long, lest her brain would break along with her heart.

She accepted it. It was just an unpleasant fact. A side effect of her life. Realism, that is all.

She suspected it was because of that thing, whatever that "thing" was.

There was something bad in her, something she could feel. Something dark. It liked to announce its presence to her every now and then and she liked to pretend she could ignore it.

_I scream inside my head. _

On occasion, she would catch its reflections staring at her from the faces of some of people she had grown up around since she was eight years old—the way one will walk past a familiar storefront window and have a vague ghost of an image mirrored back.

At first this confused her. The look on their faces would pass quickly and she was back to thinking she had imagined the caution and—what exactly was that in their features?

Pity? Perhaps. It would make sense. It was a small town. Most people knew her history. They had heard how her parents had died and knew before her uncle's passing that he was slowly dying. She found herself on some days feeling sorry for those people and wanted to comfort them, instead of the other way around.

Was it resolve? Sometimes she thought some of these folks had determined themselves to be her guardians—bulwarks, animated statues watching. Content with only a nod of acknowledgement, eyes following her—reminiscent of the birds that use to live in the crevices of her farmhouse, their nests too now at home among the ashes.

Perhaps then, fear? What rumors had been spread or spooky campfire tales taken as fact? Thankfully, there was only a handful that she believed might truly be afraid of her. _But why?_

Then she would chalk it all up to paranoia and call it day. Most of the time.

She could have just ignored completely it if her uncle had not also looked at her with the same trepidation from time to time.

He had unofficially adopted her after the tragic death of her parents—his brother and sister-in-law—in what was deemed an accidental fire during one of her father's performances with Haly's Circus. That is what she had been told.

He was a fire-eater and shot himself out of canons. Mom designed his costumes. Together they were dynamite, and they adored each other.

That was why it was so upsetting to Cassandra that Oswald was presently with his mother. She feared that she would be left again, or someone else she loved would be taken from her. However she chose to look at it, the thought consumed her. If he discarded her, having come from the "outside" to her home without any preconceived notions about her, then her theory would be true—there was something wrong with her, and she was really was not lovable after all.

_Okay. Time for this pity party to end. Especially since I really never wring my hands about what other people think about me. _

_At least not to this extent. _

_Oswald Cobblepot, you have cast a spell on me._

Questioning at the precinct that afternoon had not taken as long as Cassandra thought it would and they had returned to the club before nightfall. Maroni and Butch were still in custody along with Maroni's lieutenants, and that suited Oswald and his crew just fine.

Cassandra expected Oswald would stay the night with Mrs. Cobblepot, trying in some way to appease her and convince her of Cassandra's worth. She had been rude to Cassandra whenever Oswald was not within earshot, and sometimes when he was. When he heard her, he chastised her, and by the time the interviews were over, he was exasperated. He told Cassandra it was like trying to reign in a disobedient child.

_What if she is able to talk him out of being with me_?

That thought filled her with more fear than facing Maroni or Jeb. She started crumpling up any paper she could find, including an old phone book—tearing out the pages by the handful and tossing them into the bathtub.

_See? I'm being proactive_, she thought, rather proud of herself. _By placing my combustibles in the tub, I not only prevent the spread of the fire, I will be able to put it out immediately once the high passes._

She checked through her purse for something to light the pile with and was disappointed to discover that she was not carrying any matches, not even a lighter. _Time to search all the drawers_.

Each one turned up as empty as the last.

_Really? Are there no matches in this place? Whatever happened to good, old-fashioned, bad-for-your-lungs smoking? _She straightened up to look around the room and made note that there were no ashtrays in it.

This did not deter her. She was on a mission. Any kind of match would do. She had a Forrest Gump list of all the matches she enjoyed—book matches, fireplace matches, kitchen matches, storm matches . . .

_Finally! _Hidden under a liner in the last drawer she found some much-needed pyro-phernalia. _Come to me my phosphorous friend. _

She held the book of matches against her nostrils—there was a skeleton of a fish on the cover—and was giddy with the knowledge that in a few seconds she would be inhaling the scent of sulfur. She really liked that.

Sitting on the toilet, lid down, of course, Cassandra struck the match—that initial scrape and sizzle was music to her ears, and she wanted the whole album. It gave her the shivers.

Throwing the lit stick on the pile and hearing the poof as the paper lit, she got a rush. It tingled throughout her veins. Why didn't she do this more often?

The smoke began its steady rise and curl, like a deadly hypnotized snake. Resting her chin on her fists as she leaned towards the tub, the heat from the small blaze warming her face.

_I probably should have moved the shower curtain back more._

She considered this now that it was on fire.

She jumped up and turned on the shower, but made the unfortunate discovery that the showerhead had limited movement, preventing her from getting a proper aim. She tried cupfuls of water from the sink, but that did not make a dent, so she threw the cup into the fire to punish it.

_Oh, good. That's much better_, she thought, as the smell of burning plastic assaulted her nostrils.

The flames were traveling up the formerly-known-as "shower curtain", now referred to as the well-lookie-here-I-have-set-the-bathroom-on-fire curtain. Cassandra took a step back to admire the flaming veil.

_Wow! That is pretty! But too close to the ceiling._

She started hyperventilating. If only she could determine if it was from _panic_ of the flames getting out of control or _joy_ from the flames getting out of control.

One thing was for certain—glee or no glee. She had to stop its spread before she burned down Oswald's.

_Where is the fire extinguisher!_ It would take too long to get the one in the hall and she could not remember if it was right outside the door or not. Thinking fast, she grabbed a hand towel, wet it, and grabbed what remained of the curtain, giving it a yank.

Everything plummeted into the tub, including a newly destroyed rod made malleable by the heat, but not without first sharing a few wandering embers with the bathmat . . . which was now on fire.

_Oh crap, oh crap, oh crap, oh crap!_

Using the wet towel, she beat the stuffing out of that sweet blaze until there was nothing left but melted goo. That lovely sulfur and smoke-in-the-fall scent was replaced by something putrid and well, just really unattractive to her nose.

She scooped up the melted goo with the wet towel and threw it into the tub, searching the floor for more embers. The hairs on her neck stood up as she considered what could have happened if the floor had linoleum instead of tile.

Taking no more chances, she got up and ran out the door in search of the extinguisher. She did not have to go far. It was right there. In front of her. It looked new. Like it had just been placed there recently.

Wasting no time, she grabbed it, sprinted back into the bathroom, slung out the key and opened fire—oh, how she appreciated her own pun—on the blackened area to make sure no extra sparks were waiting for their chance to grab the spotlight.

_Great, so now I have switched from a volcanic eruption to the ice caps of the artic. _It looked like it had snowed in her bathroom. Surveying the damage, Cassandra hung her arms at her sides and released the extinguisher allowing it to hit the floor with a thud and then fall over.

_This is going to require a lot of scrubbing_. _But, at least I managed to squelch the fire. Yay, me, _she thought dully.

She relaxed a little and leaned back against the counter, watching the water gush out of the sink faucet. After one big sigh of relief mixed with dread, she reached over and twisted the knob to off before doing the same to the handle in the tub.

_Oswald is going to kill me._


	36. Chapter 35

Chapter 35

Oswald could not understand why the poor boy just did not promise to leave the girl and then come for her again later on. Preferably, after the bar was in better hands. His own.

The woman had insisted that until her angelic granddaughter was back home and out of the clutches of this musically inclined Casanova, Oswald would not have any chance at an offer on her establishment. But the lad was being difficult.

It was so simple to him. He had sacrificed Cassandra's company in order to gain influence, and now he could present her with a home and power and prestige.

Soon he would take his throne as the King of Gotham. Long live the king.

Movement drew his focus back on the dark-haired young man on the floor. Defiance was in the kid's eyes. Oswald liked that. He could respect that. But the boy was dumb as bricks. Maybe even dumber.

_This kid is an idiot_, he thought. _He deserves to have his fingers severed. Besides, I am doing him a favor. If this guitar-playing fool loses the love of his life after losing a few fingers, then she was not the love of his life to begin with—and he can start his search again—like any modern-day Romeo. _

Still. He hated to trample on alleged true love, but he hated stupidity more. Hence, the boy loses a finger or two.

_Come on! I suffered without Cassandra for months. Surely, he can suffer without his girl for a few days, until I get complete control of that bar._

_Besides, no one is asking that he stop loving her or that he must deny his love for her. Youth today, they have no patience._

_Now, neither do I. _He handed Gabe the clippers.

It was mid-day when he left the bar, witnessing the reunion of grandmother and granddaughter. The sound of a single finger hitting the bottom of a tin bucket still echoed in Oswald's ears. He smirked after finalizing the offer and shuffled out of the bar, thinking of Cassandra.

Then he thought of Maroni, to whom this transaction was in honor. This setting would be the perfect place to instigate the killing games. Let the war for Gotham begin.

_Wait until Cassandra sees how quickly I will rise to the top. Really, I am already there, it is just that nobody knows it yet_.

He increased his gait, hurrying to get home to her. Did he really just use the term "home" in regards to anyone else but his mother? The thought made him grin. He suddenly imagined himself a prince in a fairytale having been living under a curse, now coming home to roost, claiming the kingdom and a queen.

Checkmate indeed, those of you about to be slaughtered.

Everything just seemed better.

The clouds in the sky were not gray, but silver.

Crumbling buildings did not represent decay but a testament to Gotham and its architects—decades of history, stoic and still standing though battered and forgotten.

A thief running away with a woman's purse was not just a crime, but an opportunity to show heroism. Oswald thought he would give it a try and stuck his umbrella in the path of the perpetrator, sending him sprawling to the concrete, allowing the woman—who had unnaturally big jet black hair—sprinting behind him to tackle him and retrieve her purse. She adjusted her leopard pants as she stood and straightened her windbreaker.

The guy did not fight back, probably because when he looked up, the first thing he saw was Gabe hovering over him, but Oswald got a good look at his face in case he needed his services for future purposes. Terrified, the petty thief leapt to his feet and took off running again.

"Oh, thank you, doll," said the lady beaming down at Oswald, her voice cracking from one too many cigarettes. She reached for him with one skeleton-like hand that was firm in its grip, blue veins popping up to say "hi". He found it difficult not to grimace at the sound of her voice and was certain he could file down his toenails with it.

She leaned in for a hug before he could stop her, and Oswald knew immediately he did not want another one. Her hair crunched as she pressed her cheek against his.

_If there are any residual sparks, we will all go up in flames_, he thought. Normally he liked hugs—when he thought they would not endanger his life.

He disengaged himself and held up his hand.

"No need. I simply observed your distress and felt this overwhelming desire to come to your rescue," he said.

"I can give you money as a reward." She pulled out her Gucci wallet and Oswald saw that she only had a few dollar bills. He put his hand over hers and the wallet, while peeking inside her purse—naturally out of habit and instinct—and noticed there were several other wallets in there as well.

_Huh. I believe I have been duped. I may have let the true owner of this wallet get away._

"_Please,_ keep your money. It was my _pleasure_ to aid you," he schmoozed, executing a deliberate slow blink and cheesy grin.

_I am going to remember_ you _lady_, he thought.

"Aww . . . such a nice mama's boy," she patted him on the cheek and started to walk away, but Oswald stopped her and waggled his finger.

"Not until you give me back my wallet," he told her. She started to protest, but one look at Gabe and she relented, slouching and releasing Oswald's wallet from a hiding place inside her sleeve.

"And the watch," he said, enjoying her face wrinkle up more than he thought was possible. She swore and handed him the watch.

"How am I supposed to make a living!" she spat at him.

"By choosing your marks wisely," he responded. She snarled and walked away from him, giving him the bird. "Thank you . . ." he called as she walked away. "It was very _truly_ a pleasure!"

_A pleasure indeed_, he thought as he held up a diamond ring, calculating its carat weight and investigating it for any inscriptions. He was pleased with this one—the clarity was perfect and the design was unique. He guessed the metal was platinum, which coupled with the brilliance and shape of the diamond surprised him. He looked back in the direction of the female pickpocket, but she had already disappeared into the crowd.

It had been simple slipping it from her finger.

_How in the world did she come by _this _ring? It certainly seemed out of her league_. He considered himself lucky it was not inscribed. Many dollars went into procuring this bling, so he was surprised the person who bought it had not added initials or poetry along the inside band.

_Which is perfect_, he thought. _Because I can do it_.

"Is it a good ring, boss?" asked Gabe. Oswald threw it up in the air and caught when it came down.

"The best," he said, putting it in his vest pocket. Now he just needed flowers.


	37. Chapter 36

Chapter 36

The last place Oswald expected to see Sal Maroni was in a floral shop. But there he was, big as day, clasping a bouquet of yellow and white flowers.

_Jonquils, or maybe daffodils_, thought Oswald. The view from between the hanging ferns and potted cacti was not the best, and the baby's breath kept going up his nostrils. He squeezed his nose shut with his fingers to keep from sneezing.

He continued peeking around the aisle corner and observed Maroni pulling his cellphone out of his pocket before placing it against his ear. Oswald grinned when he realized whom he was calling.

"Lydia." He heard the man say. "Is everything set for Tommy-boy's release party?" he asked her, while collecting protection pay from the owner of the shop. Oswald grinned to himself because Lydia was the name of the woman whose bar he had just acquired.

_You're the walking dead, Maroni_.

With Loeb cushioned in Maroni's back pocket—anybody's pocket, whomever was the highest bidder or had the best threats—Oswald had known it would only be a matter of time before the Don was let out onto the streets, boasting and proud that he had once again usurped the authority of the police department. Wearing arrogance better than he wore a suit.

_Really_, thought Oswald, wrinkling his nose, _the man has no taste at all. Although the coat is rather interesting_. Oswald liked the lamb's wool collar.

The GCPD could not hold Maroni, really. Oswald knew that, but still—it had bought them time. Better than that—it had been fun to frame Maroni, even if it had been only for a little while. The _look_ on his face.

The real killer of that waitress was still out there. He had left a hint of who he was—a painting of a broken heart was found nearby.

Oswald was no stranger to that special kind of soul-destroying pain. His heart had been broken so many times. First, it was his dad who broke his heart, unwilling to display any sort of kindness towards him at all—it tore at him every day. Then when his siblings saw that their father did not love Oswald, they followed in his footsteps, never being reprimanded for their cruelty. Never a second thought that Oswald wanted to adore them and be loved back.

He could never figure out what he had done wrong. Why he was so hated by the very people who were supposed to care the most about him.

He had no solace at home—no young kindred spirit. He often heard the other schoolchildren talk about their brothers and sisters, the bond between the siblings, the occasional rivalries that were quickly dissipated, the encouragement they gave each other.

One would have thought that the kindness these kids were shown in their own homes would have radiated out towards their treatment of him, but it did not.

Even the kids at school despised him. He could have dealt with that, if only his father and siblings had loved him. School would have been a little less horrible if he had been able to come home to a father who would laugh and tell him how happy he was to see him and swoop him up in his arms for a bear hug.

Oswald had often daydreamed of this growing up and sometimes even now. Throughout his life, when this melancholia washed over him, he would find a corner, a quiet place, out the way where he would not be seen, where he would not be noticed, and weep. His heart hardening with each sad episode, turning bit by bit into a glacier.

At least he had his mother. She loved him. He doubted he would have survived at all without her around. Her attempts at defending him had given him that small measure of self-worth that he so desperately needed.

He grinned as he found himself staring at the potted gardenias. Cassandra loved him. She was all fire and heat and light, while he was ice and cold and darkness. When he was not preoccupied with ordering guns or arranging executions, he allowed himself to consider this new chapter in his life, overjoyed to the point of being speechless. Someone besides his mother really loved him. How did that happen?

Love and hate. They kept him going. And he hated Maroni.

Oswald relished in the fact that now Maroni knew he was a force _not_ to be reckoned with, at least he had better know it. _If he does not by now, he will very soon._

He heard Maroni say, "I'm on my way" and inspect his handful of flowers before walking out the door. Heading to Lydia's, no doubt.

As for Butch and his traitorous actions, Oswald decided he would save his hide for a particular job. One that would prove his loyalty to Falcone. He had begged for Oswald's forgiveness and rightfully so, having realized Maroni did not have his back and with one nod from Oswald, could easily have been returned to the clutches of Victor. Butch had once allowed him to indulge in the beating of one of Fish's thugs, so he only thought it polite to return the favor.

He had an errand for Butch that involved placing guns in strategic hiding places around Lydia's bar. But that would be for another day. That would have to wait. He had one more person to speak with before his plan could fully come together.

Oswald bought a bouquet of sunflowers accented with asters and pom-poms for his mother and a mix of flowers for Cassandra. The combination of strongly scented gardenias with sweet jasmine and delicate rose was seductive. The red tulips and greenery had no fragrance, but added deep, rich color to the bouquet that complemented the purple of the rose and intensified the whiteness of the gardenias and jasmine.

He entered Oswald's through the backdoor and headed immediately to the second floor using the freight elevator. As he neared the top, he thought he detected a faint smoky aroma, and was sure of it once he stepped into the hallway.

_I have upset her_, he thought. _I should not have stayed all night with Mother_.

He noticed that the fire extinguisher that he had _just installed_ was missing. Second-guessing the sunflower bouquet, he set it in one of the other rooms before going to the one Cassandra occupied.

It had not done him a lick of good anyway trying to convince his mom how great Cassandra was for him. She was adamantly against Cassandra being in his, or rather—their—lives.

Somehow this arrangement would work. It _had_ to. He broke into a cold sweat with the thought of losing affection from either of them. It made his heart race, and not in a good way.

It was however racing in a good way once he caught sight of Cassandra. She had heard the jiggle of the doorknob and opened the door to great him. He could sense her apprehension as she embraced him.

"I have something to tell you," she said right away. He started to speak as she dragged him into the apartment, still wrapped around his neck, but she continued. "There was a small accident." One side of his mouth started to curl up as he suppressed a grin. She released him.

"Small?" he asked, raising his eyebrows and holding his hand up, separating his pointing finger from his thumb, indicating how small of an accident had occurred. She placed her fingers on his and slowly closed up the large gap.

"Smmaaalller . . ." she said, pressing until his thumb and finger made contact. He was really going to have to work on keeping the light out of his eyes whenever she was mischievous, but he could not. She amused him and, besides, he liked it—it kept him on his toes, figuratively speaking.

"So, I was thinking about redecorating . . ." she started, trailing off the end of her sentence. "Are those for me?" He had almost forgotten he had them and thrust them towards her like an awkward teenager picking up his prom date. "They are the most beautiful flowers I have ever seen!" Oswald straightened up and was sure he was suddenly two feet taller.

She inhaled their scent, the petals tickling her nose and cheeks, and Oswald drank in her face and form the way flowers greedily consume water.

"You know," he purred, wobbling closer to her. "Flowers have a language."

"Indeed? Tell me what these flowers are saying," she breathed, glancing sultrily up at him. His neck tingled with a growing heat and he felt a stirring south of his bellybutton.

"Well, to start with, the rose . . ." he removed a stem from the bouquet and guided the blossom down the side of her face to her chin. "This one—purple—is telling you that I am enchanted by you and fell in love with you at first sight." He pierced the stem with his pocketknife and placed the bud behind her ear before reaching for the gardenia.

"This one is for joy—that I found you, that you love me. In addition, it represents my letter and all those days that I wished to reveal my secret love for you." he traced her nose from her forehead to its tip, cut the stem, and placed the flower behind her other ear. "And also I would be remiss in not mentioning that I included it in the bouquet because it is your favorite flower." He offered her a shy grin and reached for the tulip.

"This one—red, like fire, its petals resembling flames—means I am passionate for you . . ." The last few words got lost in a whisper. He placed this red bloom between her cleavage and felt himself blush as he did so.

Oswald reached for the last flowers. "This is Madagascar jasmine. It represents marital happiness, and the frankincense . . ." He guided it under her nose for her to smell. "Stands for my enduring faithfulness." Puncturing the stems, he placed the blossoms behind the rose in her hair. As he did so, she violently grabbed him and pulled him into a fierce kiss. Her softness, the swirl of her tongue, and the sound she made from deep within her chest combined with the aromatic scents of the flowers was dizzying.

She broke it off, leaning back slightly to look up at him.

"You are the most magnificent person I have ever known," she said. "Perfect definition of a man." Oswald needed no more encouragement. He resumed the kiss with urgency, his hands freely wandering over her. He felt as if he were visiting the most exclusive amusement park and did not know where to start first because he wanted to visit every place all at one time.

Right now, he decided to claim her neck, marking his territory with love graffiti.

"So I guess things went well with your mother?"

_Zoink_. Mood killer.


	38. Chapter 37

Chapter 37

Oswald stopped sucking on her skin and his hands went still. Of course, they were planted in a strategic place, so that was okay. He had a very firm grip on her hindquarters.

Cassandra felt bad for breaking the mood. She did not mean to—she honestly thought that Mrs. Cobblepot had come around.

"Things are not going quite as I had hoped," he admitted, mumbling into her neck. "But I'm working on it, I assure you." She wilted, and he pulled back to look at her, cupping her face with one hand.

"Things will be _fine_." He sounded like he was trying to convince himself. "Surely, they will. You'll see, my love. She will come around." Cassandra winced, like she had just stuck her finger on a needle. Oswald took her face in both of his hands and bit the inside of his lower lip.

"She was the only person who ever stood up for me," he continued. Cassandra gazed up into those big blue eyes of his and chastised herself for being so insecure. He looked so helpless.

"I know. I just wish she would extend some of that kindness to me," she said. She also thought what a horrible person she was for saying such sappy words about his mother—who she secretly thought was a snake. But Gertrud had been his everything for the majority of his life, like her uncle had been hers. Just not quite so clingy. Or creepy.

When you marry the man, you marry the mother.

"Cassandra?"

The man, the mother.

"_Cassandra?"_

_He's mine and belongs to me, _she thought_. I will not give him up without a fight. I will not give him up._

"Cassandra? Are you listening to me?" She looked at him skeptically. He stammered. " I . . . it will happen. I promise." _Does he think I'll desert him?_

"You know you can't do that," she said looking up at him with a partial smirk. "But regardless, I'm not going anywhere. If ever I'm not here with you, it's because I'm either dead or kidnapped."

"Don't . . . don't say such things," he shivered.

"I just wanted you to know that—to be very clear on the matter."

"And I want you to know that when I make a _promise_, I keep it. This is going to work." She knew he wanted to believe so, but she could hear the alarm creeping into his voice. "I meant what I said about my enduring faithfulness. I am loyal to you and I always will be. Ask me to do anything at your bidding, and I will. To prove it."

She kissed him again. Sweet this time and sad.

He frowned, his mouth agape as if there was something more he wanted to say but was at a loss for what that was, choosing instead to study her face with troubled eyes. She caressed his back and tried to rub the tenseness out of his muscles. She could feel him tremble slightly.

"I love you, Oswald, and I know you have tried. I cannot tell you how much it means to me that you have come to my defense—that you always come to my defense . . .

"You've come to mine," he piped in as a child would, explaining why something is fair. "Wait, that did not come out how I meant it."

"I know how you meant it . . ."

"I will always come to your defense," he reiterated.

"I know. I will come to yours, but listen . . ."

"And I believe you . . ."

"Oswald . . ." Cassandra lightly laughed, placing her hand on his cheek and her thumb over his mouth. "What I am trying to say is that you need not go on any Herculean quests for me. You do not have to prove yourself." _Gosh, he's adorable._

"But I will," he insisted, talking around her thumb.

She narrowed her eyes at him. "All right," she said and pressed the flowers against his chest. "These lovelies need to be put in water." He sagged.

"You know that's not what I meant."

She feigned a look of shocked indignation. "Doth my knight refuseth my request?"

"No, I will retrieve a vase posthaste, m'lady," he said, a tad too sarcastically. "But you know that's not what I meant." He turned, flowerless, to grab an empty vase from atop the highest dresser.

"You meant could you kill anyone for me?" She was half-teasing, but wondered if she should be concerned with the sudden light that had sprung into his eyes as he turned to face her. She felt him studying her as if weighting an option.

"If need be," he said slowly. When she did not respond, he added: "I'm joking!"

Cassandra was positive that he was most definitely not.

"Or anything else you ask of me," he added.

_Also, is it weird to be flattered by the thought of someone doing something so drastic for me?_

The two regarded each other for a moment before he pointed at the bouquet in her hands.

"Those flowers need water," he stated flatly, approaching the bathroom. He came to an abrupt stop in the doorway and placed his hands on his hips, which is difficult to do with a vase.

She waited.

"Honey, I love what you've done with the place," he said. After such a strange interlude, his remark was refreshingly absurd and she doubled over with laughter behind him, grateful for the relief that flooded her. Glancing over his shoulder to look at her and listening to her infectious laugh got him tickled and he started laughing as well.

"I was afraid you would be mad," she said, reaching for him. He turned and slid his arms around her waist. She had one hand clutching the flowers while the other rested on his chest.

"No, I'm not mad. Slightly scared for my life, but not mad, although a little self-control might be prudent," he nodded slightly, completely serious. "I have been planning on redesigning this entire top floor anyway." He held on to her as he backed into the bathroom.

"You have?" she inquired.

"Yeah. The sink faucet still works, right?" She nodded and he turned it on filling the vase and offering it to her. Cassandra unbound the flowers and lowered them into the water. He kept his eyes on the flowers, his long lashes—_really, I mean, REALLY_?—looking soft as feathers in the golden light of the bathroom.

She could not resist kissing him and placed her hands on either side of his face, bringing his mouth to hers. He exhaled through his nose, the air warming her skin, and she attempted to pull him closer, but the vase proved to be a mighty foe, splashing them both with water. Oswald set it on the counter and they reached again for each other. The wetness from where the water had soaked their clothing chilled the flesh on their tummies until warmed by the prolong contact of their bodies pressed together.

She said something into his mouth.

"What?" he asked.

"So you are going to redesign this floor? Into what?"

"I—it's a surprise," he teased.

"_Come on!_" she implored, playfully whining and grasping at his lapels.

"_Weeelll,_ okay. I thought we could build our own nest," he said cheerfully. "It would take a while for completion, but we need our own private castle, so to speak. Do you like that idea?" He raised his eyebrows eager for her response. His heart was beating so hard, Cassandra thought it had packed its bags and moved into her own ribcage.

She nodded and whispered "yes" before placing a kiss on his mouth that lingered there for a moment before continuing along his jawline and up behind his ear. He laughed, she assumed because it tickled and peeked at his neck where goose pimples had indeed popped up. She imagined them traveling over his shoulders and down his back and debated doing the same with her hands, or maybe her tongue. It was a toss-up.

"I also took the liberty of acquiring a few trinkets—old clocks, appliances, batteries, blowtorches, please be careful with the latter—in case you become inspired and would like to create those brilliant weapons you mentioned to me the other day." Cassandra's face lit up.

"Of course," she beamed. "Are they here at the club?" He nodded.

"Let me show you." He led her down the hall to one of the other rooms and unlocked the door. He seemed so proud. Inside was the equipment he had mentioned along with tools, extra lighting, some swivel chairs, and several work tables. The bed and dressers had been removed.

"I know it's not a lot," he said with a half shrug. "But I thought it would be more than enough to get started."

"It's fantastic!" she exclaimed, stopping to inspect a clock or pick up a blowtorch—something she regarded as an instant favorite. She looked at Oswald and mooned over him. "You know me so well." Oswald smiled.

_Sun? We don't need no stinkin' sun. Oswald lights up the sky when he smiles._

Cassandra noticed a few different styles of umbrellas as well as some of the trick spears, ninja stars, several blades, and a refrigerator.

"What's in here?" she asked, starting to open it.

"Bio-chemicals," he said. She quickly closed it.

"Of course, it is. Because who doesn't like biological warfare after tea?" she said. "Had me scared for a minute—I envisioned body parts."

"No, those are in the restaurant refrigerator," he teased, being rewarded with a laugh from Cassandra.

_That statement is probably true_, she thought.

She crossed her arms as she turned to face him. "You know we are going to have to have a serious talk about were all this came from. I doubt anyone can just walk into any old five-and-dime and purchase these things."

She saw his mouth twitch like he was preventing a laugh. Probably should not have said "five-and-dime". Also, probably should not have suggested something so scandalous as assuming that he "purchased" them.

He was smiling with his eyes. She could see the twinkle. Sometimes she would catch that glimmer of amusement during some of their conversations. She always wanted to stop talking and eat him when she saw it because he looked so damn tasty. Like hard candy adorning a cupcake, he glistened.

If only he knew what went on in her mind. What would he think of her? _Smh_. Even a lady has needs. They had better set a date soon before she spontaneously combusted.

"The plans I have for now include a remodeling of this room with fireproof surroundings—sorry, my dear—until we can move the setup into a bigger place, as it grows. I was thinking a warehouse, maybe along the waterfront?" He said this more as a question than a statement.

"It's perfect, but didn't you tell me Maroni had the warehouses at the docks?"

"He has them for now," said Oswald, not elaborating. Cassandra pursed her lips.

"Tell me something," she said.

"Anything," he said, taking a step towards her.

"When you remodel this floor, are you planning on redoing your office?"

"Not at this point," he said. "Why do you ask?"

"Just curious."

"Huh," he said, his jaw dropping into that familiar lopsided position. "You saw it, didn't you?" he asked, shuffling closer. "You saw the map. That night. The night I brought you here. You saw the map of Gotham."

She was not sure how to answer, so she answered with the truth.

"I did," she nodded. "I did not want to say anything about it in case it was something you wanted to keep to yourself. But the light from the fire illuminated it—albeit weakly. No one would notice it normally, but I was just lying there staring straight up and I saw it."

"Come here." He took Cassandra's hand and pulled her back down the hallway to his office. Once inside he closed the curtains and then before turning off the last lamp that lit the room, he reached inside his jacket and pulled out a pen-sized flashlight, turned it on, and handed it to Cassandra. He wrapped an arm around her and said, "I have you."

The room went dark, except for the small, pinpoint light—but light nonetheless, which Cassandra craved—from the tiny flashlight. She suddenly imagined a million spooky things waiting for her in the darkness and she clung to Oswald.

He tightened his hold on Cassandra and distracted her by initiating a fun and frisky game of feeling their way over to the desk. Once there, Oswald plopped Cassandra up and reached between her legs. Underneath the ledge of the desk was a switch. He took her free hand and guided it down, placing her finger on the button, and gently pressed.

They were immersed in shimmering blue light from the map on the ceiling above. Cassandra inhaled sharply.

"That is incredible . . ." she breathed, admiring the intricate design on the ceiling that revealed the streets of Gotham. Oswald watched her, more aware of her knees on either sides of his thighs than the light above.

"_You're _incredible," he whispered. She looked back at him and pulled him closer. He ran one hand up the outside of her thigh while his other hand held her hip.

"Say 'Command. Show underground tunnels, please,'" he whispered to her. She gave him a quizzical look and he nudged her, nodding. "Say it," he encouraged.

"Command. Show underground tunnels." Nothing happened.

"You have to say 'please'," he reminded her. "Try again." She did and instantly the lights changed colors and pathways. He licked her neck in one long stroke—from her collarbone to her ear.

"Now say 'Command. Show power grid, please." He began nibbling on a spot behind her ear while she repeated his words, which was not as easy as it sounded considering the effect his tongue and teeth were having on her. She managed to squeak out the phrase and the color and pathway changed again.

"Good. Now ask it to show you the train tracks." He adjusted her by grabbing both her hips and sliding her to him, her legs encircling his waist. She had her arms wrapped around his neck, her fingers in his hair, while her head was tilted back watching the ceiling.

"Command. Show train tracks, please." Now a warm orange glow enveloped them. "Can anybody command it?" she asked. He shook his head.

"No." His breath was hot against her cheek. "Just you and me. I recorded your voice and uploaded it into the system." He kissed her mouth. "It will only respond to you . . ." He kissed her again. Cassandra liked this game. ". . . .or me. No one else."

The full impact of his statement hit her head-on. Just the two of them. He trusted her enough to do this. He was including her, sharing his scepter. She kissed him back . . . harder . . . deeper . . .

The buzzer went off on Oswald's desk and he swore.

"What is it?" he barked into the receiver.

Cassandra heard Gabe say, "Conner is here."


	39. Chapter 38

Chapter 38

Oswald watched Cassandra sashay down the hall with the key he had just given her. He had made her search for it on his body, which had proven to be a dreadfully frustrating but welcomed mistake that had only prolonged his agony as she inspected places where he obviously would not have hidden it.

He should have known better. The nagging in his head to hurry up and meet with Conner lost its battle as Cassandra ran her hands across Oswald's chest and groped him through his trousers in search of the key. She had been in the right area, and he had told her she was "hot"—that statement being true on so many levels—before she pulled the brass key from his pants pocket. Holding it up triumphantly, Cassandra pivoted on her heel and headed towards his office door, changing her mind in midstride and abruptly returning to Oswald to give him a kiss.

"I love you," she said, before turning once more and walking out the door. He shuffled over to watch her go. She was heading to the room filled with the discarded limbs and scattered corpses of dead or unwanted machines. It was time to start tinkering with the toys he had left for her.

"Well, I need _something_ to do with my hands," she had told him with a half-smirk and a raised eyebrow. If she had searched his jacket pockets, she would have found the diamond ring.

_Someday_, Oswald thought. _Someday soon, I am not going to have to leave her to check on this or that or appease Mother or arrange a mobster's death, but that someday is not today. _

Oswald decided to take even more time in meeting with Conner. He had to—he needed a moment to cool down from his short-lived tryst with Cassandra—the softness of her backside memorized across the palms of his hands, the evidence of his arousal still standing at attention.

Damn bad timing that call from Gabe was, indeed.

He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the wall of his office. Its coolness acted as a balm to calm him while he attempted to gather his thoughts.

_Conner is the catalyst. He will be the bedrock, the unsuspecting end of the fuse that is going to set off the dynamite._ Oswald Cheshire-grinned to himself aware he was using imagery of which Cassandra would approve. His thoughts drifted back to her instead of the matter at hand.

It had been difficult to stop clinging to her and he had held on even while answering the intercom and switching on a desk lamp effectively muting the colors on the ceiling. While she had continued tugging on his earlobe with her teeth, Oswald had started to reach for the lever that turned off the map, but Cassandra had stopped him and said, "Let me."

Slowly, she had lowered their hands between them while holding his gaze and licking her bottom lip. The back of Cassandra's hand grazed him as she still had her legs wrapped tightly around his waist—_good grief, her legs were strong!_—and he inhaled sharply, hissing through his teeth. He had not wanted to be unwrapped from her.

_No. Concentrate. Do not think of her. See, I told you this would be a problem. You are so close. So close to finalizing total annihilation._ Oswald banged his forehead against the wall.

_Imagine your enemies and all who have crossed you drowning like rats in the sewer of their own blood. Vile, heartless creatures that deserve to die—and the ones that, perhaps, did not deserve it, but needed to be disposed of nonetheless. Like cockroaches, they need to be crushed. _

_Nothing personal._

Oswald held no contempt for cockroaches. He had no opinion of them at all—except that, whenever he saw one, he stepped on it. Didn't everybody?

More in control now, he straightened his shoulders and adjusted his clothing, appraising himself in the mirror as he spiked up his disheveled hair and refastened his crossover tie.

_There, _he nodded._ No one will suspect that I have just had a power make-out session with my fiancée. _ He frowned.

Somehow that realization did not sit well with him. That would have to change. He actually wanted to shout it from the rooftops that, _yes, believe it or not Gotham, a woman actually wants to put her hands on me "like that"_. He wanted everyone to know she wanted him.

That diamond ring was burning a hole in his pocket.

He exited the door and stood in the middle of the hallway looking in the direction of the super-secret weaponry horde room. He could hear the drill bit humming.

_I cannot wait to see what my fiery damsel creates._

Above that noise was another one. A familiar one, and he furrowed his brows, hoping he was wrong, but fairly certain that he was not.

His suspicion was confirmed when he reached the balcony.

_Oh no,_ he slumped. _When did Mother get here?_

"Quite the little singer, you have there," said Conner, gesturing toward the stage.

"Is that supposed to be an insult?" asked Oswald, his nostrils flaring.

Conner held up both hands. "No, not at all. She reminds me of my own dear, sweet mother back home in Ireland. No offense meant".

Oswald relaxed. "Well, then, you understand what I am dealing with-my dilemma."

"Aye, mothers. We love them, but they can be a handful."

"No truer words have been spoken," agreed Oswald. He looked towards his mom. She looked like an angel down there with the lights on her, but still . . . "Could you . . . I just need one minute." Oswald summoned a waiter to send up something for Conner to drink. "I assure you, this will not be but a hasty second."

_But nooooooo_, of course she wanted to dance. With Oswald. But he could not do that anymore. At least, not with any grace. He untangled himself from her grasp.

"Mother, what are you doing here?" he asked her, trying to lead her off the dance floor. She was having none of it.

"I am dancing with my precious son," she responded, giving him a big, sloppy kiss on his cheek-the kind that called to mind school days and his embarrassment as the kids looked on and laughed at him getting mom-handled. No amount of her telling him "they're just jealous" eased his humiliation. He reminded himself he was a grown-up now and needed to stop letting these flashbacks undermine him.

_They do not matter anymore_, he failed to convince himself.

"And look here," she continued. "There is someone else who wants to dance with you. I believe you two have already met."

Oswald widened his eyes. It was bird-girl. She waved.

"No, Mother, I am not interested . . . oh, hello Miriam," he choked out when she appeared by his side.

"I like your hair," she squeaked. He had to reach out to stop her from petting him and was saved by Gabe who began the ritual of fending off Miriam's advances.

Gertrud looked fairly disappointed by this, Oswald noticed. This did not please him. Something was off, and the back part of his mind went into overdrive, while rest of it focused directly on the plight before him. He certainly did not need Loeb getting wind of what he was planning.

Commissioner Loeb was seated at a table and he raised a hand in greeting, which Oswald returned, limping over to him, with Miriam and Mrs. Kapelput trailing behind.

"Commissioner. Always a pleasure to see you," said Oswald, hoping his nerves were not showing.

"Likewise, Cobblepot," replied Loeb. "Place is looking good. Just came by to listen to Miriam sing a few songs, then we will be on our way. I hope that is not a problem." Loeb smiled brightly.

_Ass._

"No, of course not. I, personally, feel _especially _blessed knowing that you are willing to allow your daughter to grace my establishment with her talent."

_Why is there constantly a new fire to put out? Will this ever end?_

Gertrud slipped her arm through Oswald's. "Maybe you could sit and listen to her and then all of us have a few drinks together after, yes?" crooned Gertrud. Loeb looked uncomfortable.

"I thought you had sworn off drinking, Mother," piped Oswald, which earned him a scowl from Gertrud.

"You are welcome to sit with me," he told her. "But as soon as Miriam's set is done, we must be going." He gave Oswald a pointed stare. Gertrud pouted.

"Well, then, maybe I'll sit with you. I don't know. Right now it is important that I dance with my son," she dragged him back onto the dance floor, followed by Miriam, followed by Loeb.

"Baby," Loeb said, addressing Miriam. "It's time for you to sing." She clapped her hands and bounced on the balls of her feet before being led to the stage by someone who fancied himself a vampire, but came across looking like a cartoon magician with too much red lipstick and Chiclets for fangs. Miriam was nonplussed.

She was unaware of a heart she had stolen simply by walking up the stairs.

An odd-looking young man in an oversized hat—or it could have been a tiny man in a normal-sized hat—sat memorized by her. He ordered another pot of tea and effectively ignored everyone around him except for anyone who had any remote contact with the ethereal blond woman, particularly the man whose table he was close enough to touch.

"Alice . . ." he breathed.

No one heard him. He barely heard himself. Or he had. He was not sure. But who kept up with such things? Not him. He could hardly keep up with the time. Someone had stolen his watch. Which was irritating. He so looked forward to teatime, and now he knew where he was going to be spending it from now on. If only he could find his watch. He got tired of asking strangers what time it was.

But he had found her again and the time was now and now was the time.

No one in the joint was aware of the ramblings going on in this man's head. In all fairness, each person owned their own madness and were too busy for his.

This included Oswald who had finally made it back to the second floor and had skillfully sealed the deal with Conner.

Conner had agreed to take out Maroni and his lieutenants.

Oh, happy day.


	40. Chapter 39

Chapter 39

A feeling of familiarity washed over Cassandra as she sat tinkering with the brass arteries and pewter hearts from the sacrificial mechanisms.

"You have not died in vain," she told them. In her mind's eye, she envisioned a vast array of umbrella weapons, lined up row by row like vigilant soldiers, ready to serve, and forged by her own hands, _thank you very much_. It was comforting to be surrounded by the shiny metals, the jagged pieces of cogs, the collection of tools, and the wiring that stuck out from various contraptions like bad hairdos.

She stopped what she was working on and stared up at the wall. A clock ticked and she glanced at it briefly—she had been working for over three hours—before staring back at that blank spot on the wall in front of her. Anyone walking into the room would have thought she was having an inward epileptic seizure when really she was just picturing herself back on the farm, conjuring up an image of her uncle, and wondering what he would think of her now.

_He would be glad I was away from Jeb_. She knew that for sure. He had never seemed to have reservations about Oswald though—whom he had known as Pablo—and she was glad for that. He had even told her the night that Oswald had run out on her that she should have gone with him. Her calling after the gypsy boy had roused him and a handful of the tenants from sleep.

But how could she do that? How could she desert him after all he had done for her? She had owed her uncle so much, and with him being so sick, she would not have left him behind—could not have—and retained a clear conscience. She had loved him—her surrogate father.

He had almost seemed distressed that she had not gone with Oswald, even murmuring something about "being hidden right under their noses" and "that being the safest way".

_I wonder what he meant_. He had never explained when she asked. It was at those times she felt most lonely. He would say something odd, almost talking in a riddle, and then not tell her the punchline, so to speak. Never a hint, if there ever was one, whether verbal or hidden somewhere on their property.

Well, whatever it was, if it had ever existed, it was now most likely a pile of ashes, burned to the ground along with the house and trailer. She had brought nothing with her from the farm that screamed "top-secret clue, open me".

_Except he did not say 'noses', he had said 'beaks'._ _Right?_ She was sure of it. She played that scene over again, rewinding it like a VHS tape. Cassandra frowned. _This should probably matter. What is the point of beaks? _No pun intended_. Bird-people?_

She thought of Oswald's nickname for Miriam, bird-girl, and shook her head—shaking herself free of empty speculation as if shaking dirt from her hair.

Still she liked a good mystery and was not planning on letting this one go unsolved, even if it took a while to decipher.

_Now where was that flamethrower_? She just wanted to be sure it was working correctly.

Really.

Might better take it outside. _Or test it in the porcelain tub since I had such good luck with that last time,_ she snickered.

She got up, and spotting three of the weapons lined against the wall, hoisted one of the cumbersome devices to her back, strapping it on, checking to be sure the straps were secure around her waist and shoulders. It was an "Ack Pack" meaning it was British made and the combined tanks were formed into the shape of a doughnut. It would be excellent to burn several motorcycles at once. Or a tank. What is Oswald thinking? Does he want to take out a city block?

_I think he gave me my Valentine's present early_.

She went to the bathroom to look at herself in the mirror but stopped at the doorway and laughed aloud before she entered.

Oswald had removed the shower curtain and mat.

Snickering, she entered the incendiary-challenged room—challenged, except for the toilet paper, and well, she knew she needed that—and turned around to get a better look at the weapon on her back.

_Great. I look like a ninja turtle._

With nothing to burn, Cassandra resolved to taking the weapon elsewhere for testing. The rooms were too small for this sort of weaponry anyway and she could use a stretch and a walk. Not to mention some food.

The music was loud from the club, but it was energizing and poked her awake. She was hungry, but thought it better to avoid the patrons while lugging what was essentially a giant lighter, so she went out the backdoor into the alley. The piles of trash and the rusted dumpster looked just the same as they had a couple of nights ago. The memory of the dead waitress and Maroni's unconscious form crashed into her mind.

She stood a few feet back from the now defunct crime scene and opened fire on the trash piled up beside the dumpster. The yellow caution tape melted into curls and then disappeared altogether.

_Yep, the flamethrower worked_.

Now if only it would rain.

No sooner had she thought it, when the wind squeezed the spongy clouds and a torrent of rain let loose on the city below, effectively smothering the blaze that Cassandra had just set.

She shrugged. _Just as well_.

Instead of hauling the weapon back up the stairs, she chose to ride the elevator, making sure its vertical gate was securely shut; otherwise, she would not be getting anywhere. The freight elevator would not move a budge unless both the outside doors and the gate, which had to be closed manually, were shut.

Cassandra leaned against the car's back wall, the thud of the music from the stage surrounding her. She could even swear the elevator vibrated with each beat of the drum, and cursed aloud when a violent lurch nearly knocked her off her feet. She caught herself on the hand railing, her other hand tightly clutching the wand.

The lights flickered and then went out.

For a moment she stopped breathing. Inside her mind, she could hear herself scream, but no noise came from her throat.

She thought of those balls of yarn that playful kittens enjoyed unraveling and identified with the yarn. Those scenes used to look so cute. Not so much now.

_Of course, _she nodded_. Of course the lights go out and my only source of light is one that I cannot use because this entire box will go up in flames, especially me._

She settled herself onto the floor of the elevator, pushing herself as far into a corner as she could get, which was not a lot considering the duel tank was taking up so much room.

The lights flickered and half the panels came on.

A little light was better than none. She removed the apparatus, checking to see if there was a gauge where she could set the length of the flame in case the lights went out again completely, something she was realizing too late, she should have done in the alley. It proved to be too dark in the elevator to do this safely.

Cassandra contemplated emptying some of the propane. It might produce a weak jet when firing instead of the flame of destruction that was the norm. However, if she was not careful emptying out the pressurized gas, the whole area could go up in one localized explosion.

Surveying her surroundings—she had never taken such notice before—she realized how old this elevator was—probably ignored during the initial renovations of the lounge and office. There was an emergency button and a phone, the door to these lifesavers apparently ripped off its hinges long ago.

Gingerly she rose to her feet and the elevator pitched, causing her to lose her footing and land on her stomach. She used her foot to press the flamethrower firmly back into the corner. It would not behoove it to get bumped around and _oh, I don't know, hit an exposed nail_. Might be a good time to wedge the tank between the car and the handrail. Unfortunately, the tank was too big, so she had no choice but to leave it. The elevator rose and then dropped again, the lights mercifully staying on.

She pressed the emergency button. If there was an alarm, it could not be heard above the music.

_Please don't tell me he bribed someone to bypass the safety inspection_.

She tried the phone. Someone answered.

"Kitchen." _Really? The kitchen. In case someone needed takeout? Or a strong drink? But I won't complain._

"Yes, hello. This is Cassandra, Oswald's . . ." she paused and cleared her throat before placing a hand on her hip to impress the spiders lurking in the corner of the car. "This is Mr. Cobblepot's fiancée. Please help me. I am stuck in the freight elevator." She could hear the music on the other end of the phone.

"So, you not calling from restaurant? You need room service?" Cassandra bit her lip. _Why would I be calling from the restaurant when there were servers to take my order?_

"No, _nooooo_. I don't need room service. I need someone to get me out of this elevator." She looked at its ceiling thinking maybe she could just climb her way out. There should be a ladder attached to the wall of the elevator shaft that she could use to get to the second level.

"We have a special today . . ." He was cutting in and out underneath the pounding of the music and a general bad connection. The lights dimmed.

"I don't need food! I need help! Badly!"

"Ahhhhh, I think we are out of halibut, but we have tuna. Lots of tuna." One of the working panels popped and died, causing Cassandra to jump and clutch the front of her blouse.

"_Not tuna!"_

"So you want tuna? Would you like fries with that?" She looked heavenward, from whence she hoped would come her help.

"_I'm not hungry!_" she yelled into the phone, although that was a lie. "_I'm stuck_!" She proceeded to bang the phone against the wall for emphasis. _That'll show him_.

She placed the phone back to her ear and waited. Silence. Did she go too far? At least she felt better. It was akin to the same feeling she had when she had socked Maroni, but on a much smaller scale.

"Hello?" she squeaked.

"Ahhhh. You very rude lady. I hang up now."

The line went dead.

_Ohhhhhh, you are soooooo fired, buddy_.

She threw the phone at the metal mesh gate, but it only snapped back at her on the cord and hit her leg. She stood there fuming and staring at the gate that separated her from freedom and more importantly, light.

It was not being in a confined place that bothered Cassandra. It was being anywhere were the source of light was obviously compromised. She did not want to sit around and risk being trapped in here, in the dark, for who knows how long.

Nope. Not happening, buckaroo.

She let out a frustrated scream and circled the elevator floor three times before stopping to glance up again. Pressing her cheek against the mesh and leaving a criss-cross design on her face, she could see she was not too far from the second level, she could see the doors . . . the elevator jolted and she put her fingers through mesh to steady herself.

_Maybe I should risk trying to burn my way out of here after all. I could just torch my way to the second floor. It's worth a shot, right? Otherwise who knows how long I may be in this dark coffin._

_Here goes nothing. This is probably unwise, but desperation calls._

There was another lurch upward and the lights went out.


	41. Chapter 40

Chapter 40

Many would find it humorous that Cassandra was squeezing her eyes shut to block out the darkness, but she was not laughing. She knew she could not take the chance of firing the flames up through the shaft. It would probably catch the building on fire and she could not stand the thought of Oswald being injured or worse, not to mention the others in the building that could get hurt as well. Of course, her concern for their safety came in dead last when she thought of her need to protect Oswald.

So here she was in the dark. Again.

_Just breathe_, she told herself. _Think back to when Oswald—Pablo, at the time —held your hand while you fell back to sleep. When he threatened the boogeyman and chased it away. You can chase it away too. Remember—he told you that._

Cassandra had nightmares. Not all the time, but often enough that it became routine for her uncle to pacify her when they occurred. The first time it had happened, he was a wreck.

She eight years old and she would not stop screaming.

He had carried her around the house, bobbing her in his arms to no avail. She was still asleep but shrieking at the top of her lungs. He was sure the authorities would come and arrest him. All he could think was "what would she do without him".

It was only after he had turned on the lights that she became calm. So that was the protocol. She screams. The lights come on. She sleeps.

Sometimes she would wake up hours before sunrise and find herself curled up in his lap on either the couch or the recliner. Mostly she stayed asleep, however, waking the next day to find him slouched in the rocking chair in her room, dead to the world and looking haggard.

It was mostly the feeling of terror merged with the assurance of absolute aloneness that sent her crying out and twisting in her sheets, entangling her and convincing her that she had been captured. She could never remember the dream, only that she was being hunted. She was prey to something nasty and hungry. Something that screeched.

As she grew, the nightmares became less frequent, only occurring around the anniversary of her parents' death, so she surmised it was connected to that, which somehow gave her a morbid sense of comfort. She had an explanation to which she could cling.

One night, right after Oswald had moved in to the house, she had woken up in his arms, not knowing how she had gotten there, but took a wild guess.

Must have been another one of her episodes. She was mortified.

She and her uncle had told him about them—they felt they needed to do that with every guest that stayed in the house—but never expected he would have to witness one, at least not so soon. _Explaining_ her situation and _experiencing_ her situation were two entirely different things. Until one actually witnessed one of her night terrors, one was unprepared for the trauma of it.

_He will know I'm off my rocker for sure now_, Cassandra reasoned.

Sleep could not hide the fact that Oswald bore that same look about him that her uncle had whenever he had fallen asleep after one of Cassandra's spells—worry, exhaustion, and pain. Neither could have claimed to be comfortable in that rocking chair, but Cassandra's uncle had stopped the practice of holding her while she slept a long time ago. Oswald, however, had her wrapped up in a blanket, nestled against him in his lap, with his good leg propped up on her hope chest. His head hung to one side.

She heard movement and saw her uncle in the doorway. He held a finger to his lips indicating for her not to speak and then with a sad grin, turned away and shuffled back to his room, pulling the portable oxygen tank behind him.

The lamp beside her bed was on as well as the nightlights in nearly every outlet, and she studied Oswald's features in the shadowy light. Up close, she could really see the freckles decorating his nose and the ingrained wrinkles his dimples had created. _From laughing, I hope._ It saddened Cassandra to think of him in distress.

She leaned into his neck—careful not to touch him in case contact should wake him up—and took a deep breath. He smelled like soap.

When she leaned back to unabashedly watch him sleep, her movement shifted the rocker's balance, titling it forward slightly. Immediately Oswald was awake and tightened his hold on her, blue eyes wide open and alert. He simultaneously reached for something at his hip—Cassandra suspected it was his pocketknife—but stopped upon seeing her staring at him. She felt his body slowly relax, reminding her of warmed icing sliding off the side of a freshly baked cake, and his eyelids drooped a little. Then, as if he suddenly remembered where he was, he started sputtering and offered up an awkward apology.

"You had a nightmare," he explained. "Please accept my apologies. I doubt you expected to wake up here," indicating the rocking chair and his lap. "Your uncle . . . he is so weak . . . he said it would be okay . . . I assure you . . . there has been no impropriety . . ."

"I'm just sorry I woke you—and probably the whole house." He smiled and nodded.

"Yes, you did. You certainly do not need to inquire into the services of any banshees."

Cassandra turned red and set her jaw. "Sorry you had to witness that," she said. He saw he had embarrassed her and shook his head, gathering the fleece material at her waist into his hands.

"No bother, I assure you. I only meant to lighten the mood with that remark. I am sorry I have offended you. And if your tenants cannot handle it—they can leave. It is not as if they were not previously informed of the situation. We all have our demons, so to speak. If I catch yours—I'll kill them for you," he offered. "Unless you kill them first, of course."

"How do you kill _your _demons?" she had asked him. She witnessed a change in his features—surprise, fear, joy—he was open and closed all at the same time. _How did he do that?_

His eyes twinkled and an impish grin slithered across his face.

"How do I kill _my_ demons? With delight," he responded. "If they have been very wicked."

"Have yours been very wicked?" He averted his eyes, his mood changing abruptly, a shadow crossing his features. He looked back up at her and nodded in silence. She wanted to kiss him right then. Make the bad go away. Of course, there were other reasons as well.

"Are you comfortable in this chair?" she whispered.

He nodded.

"Are you lying?"

He grinned and nodded again.

"Come on then," she said, helping him to his feet. She took note of his white t-shirt and black trousers. _Surely he did not sleep in that_? _Must have slipped on the trousers before he came to see about the commotion_. "Thanks for guarding me."

"You say that as if the specter in your nightmare is real, and somehow _I_ have managed to chase it away." Oswald could not hide the pride in his voice, but he was oblivious to it. Cassandra detected it immediately.

"You talked to me while I slept, didn't you?" she asked. She led him by the hand to the middle of her room.

"I might have said a few things." He stopped halfway across the waxed floor.

"You're not going to elaborate?"

"Maybe another time."

Cassandra jutted out her hip. "Oh, I don't think so," she stated.

"I . . . look, it's nothing that any other person who cares about you wouldn't say, especially on account of your condition." She eyed him. "Okay, that's not what I meant. Clearly, my words keep coming out wrong." She gestured for him to go on. "To summarize, all I said was to not let this boogeyman—this trifle nothing of a ghost, a nonexistent 'hant' defeat you. When are you going to learn that you are stronger than that—you run a boarding house; you play equal parts chef, maid, and maintenance; and do it all while tending to a sick relative, a giant of a man, I might add. I wish you would stop collapsing in on yourself."

"You care for me?" He blinked a few times and shook his head, hanging it to one side and squinting back up at her with amusement and bewilderment on his face.

"_That's_ what you took away from what I just said?"

"No, I heard everything you said." She latched onto him quite suddenly, taking in the softness of his cotton shirt against her cheek, and hugged him fiercely. He slowly encircled her with his arms.

"It's just that this is a terror I have been running from my whole life. As a child, it's natural to flee from the dark when it chases you and now as an adult, I live with that conditioning—I keep running. It's not like I don't know I have to slay the dragon eventually, but—baby steps. Speaking of which—you'll stay while I fall back to sleep?" She did not have the guts to look back up at him.

"Oh, I don't think . . ." he began, but she felt his fingers twitch on her back.

She nodded and said, "That's alright. I understand. Not proper. But the door is open, and my uncle knows you're in here. You could stay in the rocker. How rude of me—that's not comfortable. You can't stay there." She paused and backed away from him. "I am so sorry, this is incredibly presumptuous of me and I am taking advantage—"

_I know you think I'm a boring freak. A yawn-inducing crazy person. Aren't you glad you stopped here at the funny farm?_

"No," he waved her off. "It is I who would be taking advantage." She titled her head and a bashful grin wandered across her face. He blushed and stammered. "I mean . . . I misspoke . . . not exactly what . . ." He took a deep breathe.

"I understand. I do. Thanks for . . ." she gestured to the rocking chair and turned to pull down the sheets.

"It's the least I could do," he said softly.

He continued to stand there, not making any move to exit the room. He seemed to be deliberating. She pivoted to look at him, holding her head to one side—like a puppy.

"Do you _want_ to stay with me until I fall asleep?" His answer was immediate.

"Yes."

"Will you?"

"I will."

"Okay. Here?" She indicated her bed and he nodded.

"Alright then," she said.

Oswald moved to the opposite side of the bed, dragging his bad leg as he walked, and assisted her in rearranging the sheets and covers. Cassandra could feel him staring at her.

"I will be on top," he announced. She stopped arranging the covers to look at him. "I-I-I mean of the blanket, the covers, I mean . . . not underneath . . . not in the sheets." He spread his arms wide and let them drop, slapping the outside of his thighs. He had an "I give up" smirk on his face.

"You should write greeting cards," chuckled Cassandra. He laughed and fell into her bed. She pounced beside him and settled herself under all the covers. Oswald lay beneath the coverlet only, toward her and buried his face into the pillow.

"Oh, the lamp," said Cassandra, reaching over him to turn it off. He grabbed her hand and held it, not letting go.

"No, no, leave it," he said. "I'm fine." Cassandra settled closer to him and lay back down.

"But Cassandra," he said, his voice muffled by the pillow, his eyes closed. "Do not allow the darkness to claim victory over you."


	42. Chapter 41

Chapter 41

"Do not allow the darkness to claim victory over you."

Oswald was not sure what made him think of that. Perhaps it was catching a glimpse of Cassandra as she passed through the back hall, flamethrower strapped her back, looking like a sexy badass warrior—a femme fatale slayer of darkness, that called to mind what he had told her those many months ago as he lay in her bed, holding her hand.

He could have sworn he saw her go out Oswald's back exit into the alleyway, but as he stood in the doorpost, his eyes scanning back and forth, taking in the filth and dampness of the street, he did not see her anywhere.

But he knew she had been there.

Hanging in the atmosphere was the distinct smell of smoke, the aroma of burnt decayed wet things permeating the area around him. A gust of bitingly cool wind lifted the scent and carried it upward over the buildings and into the sky, an offering for the hidden sun. Greasy food wrappers and matchbooks whirled together to form mini tornadoes, gathering torn newspaper and swizzle sticks in their journey down the dead-end, only to fall apart against the brick walls or within dirty corners. He thought the display of debris and decay aesthetically lovely.

Where could she have gone? He had not recalled seeing her come back in but, of course, he _had_ been preoccupied with business and his mother at the time. His mind wandered to black places, courtesy of his business interests and curriculum vitae.

It always made him nervous when he did not know where she was, where to find her. What manner of evil may rip her from him, or perhaps—did he dare to think it—would she go on her own volition?

Which terrified him more?

_Both_, he decided.

If taken, what forms of atrocities would be performed upon her? The vile creatures he dealt with would be at no loss for inventive and seedy tortures that skinned away dignity, sanity, and if lucky—life.

If she willingly deserted him—then it would be official—no manner of romantic love will have truly ever existed—would have not been formed, created, or imagined—just for him. No Eve to his Adam. No Juliet to his Romeo. No Catherine to his Heathcliff.

_Why must they all end in death? That will not be us. I do not accept it._

He believed Cassandra. She would not leave him voluntary.

He had his Ruth to his Boaz. Emma to his Knightley. Beatrice to Benedick.

No one was going to take her from him. Not unless they had a death wish. Oswald sighed heavily. He knew too many in Gotham did.

He fingered the blade in his pocket. It was his pacifier, his "blankie"—but he was not feeling reassured at present. Instead, he was overcome with a soul-crushing panic. Irrational, he knew, but it dragged him under like the ocean's tide, gripping him with liquid steel fists, pulling him below.

_I am overreacting_, Oswald thought as he reentered the establishment and headed to the freight elevator, the tip of his umbrella clicking against the floor as he walked. He pressed the red button, not allowing his mind to fall victim to paranoid delusions. He leaned forward on the umbrella with both hands, forcing it to support him. The elevator had not arrived yet. Impatient, he straightened up and pressed the button again.

No one had taken her.

She was upstairs, building specialized weaponry.

_Why wasn't this elevator here already? _

She was in his office, reviewing the map of Gotham. He looked down at the floor and ran a free hand through his hair.

_It never took this long_.

She was in her tiny apartment, waiting for him.

He banged the button with the lower part of his palm several times in succession. It sounded like the gears were grinding, but there was no hiss and clang of the elevator moving.

He got out his cell phone and called Fara since Gabe had taken his mother back home for the evening. He made a mental note to get Cassandra a phone.

"Where are you?" he asked Fara, nearly yelling, the dull thud from the club music vibrating its way down the hall. The thumping rhythm sounded to him like a giant jogging in place.

"Walking by the stairs. What do you need me to do?" she asked, her voice raised over the noise in the lounge.

"Check upstairs for Cassandra. I cannot locate her down here. Do this immediately. Then call someone to fix this elevator. It seems to be indisposed."

"Indisposed?"

Oswald rolled his eyes. "It's stuck! The damn thing is stuck. We need someone out here _now_. I'm trying to run a business!"

"I'm on it, boss."

After slipping his phone into his pocket, Oswald offered the elevator door a swift blow with his umbrella.

"Oswald?" Oswald perked up his head.

_Cassandra?_

He peered around, but did not see her. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end. Was she dead? Was this her ghost now haunting him?

"Cassandra?" he whispered. He looked back at the elevator doors, a thought forming in head.

_Could it be . . ._

Throwing himself against the elevator doors, he slammed the flat of his hand against the metal several times and called out her name.

"Cassandra? _Cassandra! Are you in there_?"

"Oswald! Can you hear me?" She sounded like she was at the end of a long tunnel. Or in another dimension.

"Barely!" he called back, almost laughing upon the realization she was not dead or missing. "Are you okay?"

"The lights are out!" His heart sank. "Use the phone!" he hollered back.

"NO!" He lifted his ear from the door and stared at the metal. She yelled something else and he replaced his cheek against the cool door.

"What?" He made out the words "did" "would not" and "hanged".

"Call again!" he told her. "I will be on the other end!" Although he used his umbrella for support, Oswald still wobbled as he ran to the kitchen and shoved the chefs nearest to the phone out of his way. He was not aware he was holding his breath as he stared at the phone, waiting for it to ring. It did a beat later. He grinned. She had known to give him a head start, to give him time to get there.

"Cassandra!" He yelled into the receiver. She answered him, her voice sounding nasally.

"I did not cry as much as I thought I would," she stated proudly. "But it's really getting to me."

"The flamethrower . . ." he started.

"I can't use it. Everything will go up. I feel like a castaway in the middle of the ocean, surrounded by undrinkable water. It would kill me."

"Can you tell for how long you have been trapped?"

"Ummm, at least fifteen minutes," she sniffed. "I used this phone earlier—but the guy who answered hung up on me."

Oswald's faced tightened and he began surveying the room. It was warm with steam from the sinks and vapor from freshly prepared meals. The clatter of pans against grills and china against the marble countertop served as background noise as did the orders barked by the head chef. Everyone and everything seemed in its rightful place, but he knew there was a rat within the mix. And rats most certainly do not belong in kitchens.

"_Really_?" he said, not very pleased. Not very pleased at all. "Did you happen to get a name?" He noticed an Asian sous chef and dishwasher engaged in an animated conversation and studied them as his grip on the receiver intensified, causing his knuckles to whiten.

"No," she answered. The dishwasher kept glancing Oswald's way, each time receiving a slap from the sous chef and more fussing.

"I am not going anywhere," he told her. "Someone is on the way to get you out. I would be honored, however, if in the meantime, you recanted a tale to me. Something about the farm. Your fondest memory." He watched the pair closely. The dishwasher—Oswald stretched to get catch a glimpse of his nametag—Phil, _oh now _that's _believable_—seemed unconcerned and shrugged off any verbal spanking from the older man.

Cassandra laughed and some of the worry he felt trickled off him.

"I know what you're doing," she said. He feigned ignorance. "I know you are trying to distract me while I'm trapped in this death box." A tiny sob escaped from between her lips and Oswald squeezed his eyes shut.

"What? Why, I am doing nothing of the sort," he lied, knowing that she knew he was lying.

Her voice trembled as she spoke. "Well, my favorite memory? That would have to be of you," she replied. For a moment, he was back in the kitchen on her farm, trying to decipher what she had just said as if she had been speaking in another language. That familiarity of feeling like an aw-shucks teenager who was trying to figure out how he had won the approval of the prom queen rolled quickly through him and then away. He needed to concentrate on what she was saying as well as the drama that was being played out by his two employees—one of which was about to get speedily demoted.

He pulled out his phone and texted Fara that Cassandra was trapped in the elevator, to make sure that maintenance is made aware, and that he needed her assistance in the kitchen. She was there pronto and he covered the mouthpiece of the retro phone, instructing her to take "Phil" and the man with him to his office. Under no circumstance were they to leave.

She nodded and let him know that a repairman was already in the neighborhood having just finished servicing another business and was on his way here. Should not be five minutes. Then she turned and offered the two men Oswald wanted to speak with, her most inviting smile. It reminded Oswald of a razorblade.

He enjoyed the look of fear that crossed the older man's face. He really had no issue with him per say, but always preferred to indulge in the full story before a slaughter. Like an appetizer, it wet the palate.

The dishwasher, however, had so much attitude that Oswald thought he might collapse with the weight of it.

That's the one, he knew it. That's the pre-corpse that left his Cassandra in the dark.

It would be a pleasure to kill him.


	43. Chapter 42

Chapter 42

"Don't kill him, Oswald."

Oswald gaped at Cassandra, his eyebrows raised. She was dead serious. Not _even_ joking.

She stood in the doorway to his office with her hands on her hips and one leg turned out. The older man had already returned to his work.

The seasoned sous chef had given "Phil" a sound thrashing upside the head and had chastised him in his shrill language. Oswald had liked that—not necessarily the bird-like quality of the words, reminiscent of the caw of a really pissed-off crow—no, no, it was not that, but rather Oswald had no idea what the man was saying, yet the vehement in his voice translated the message quite nicely. He believed the older man to be loyal, trustworthy. Not so much the younger man whom he had yet to address one-on-one.

"Phil" was now an unenthusiastic guest of the club and former kitchen staffer, awaiting interrogation in one of the other rooms. Right at this moment, Fara was spreading a shower curtain upon the carpet in front of him as if preparing for a picnic. The vinyl had a design of intricately patterned nightingales on it. Oswald remembered picking that one out himself. It had been on sale. Pity to lose it. It was quite pleasing to the eye.

Cassandra crossed her arms.

"_Oswald_," she warned.

_She knew_. This realization caused within Oswald a slight mind explosion. Cassandra knew what he was capable of doing. What he had in fact done on many occasions. Without the slightest regret. It had all been business-related after all. Where is the harm in that? Just another transaction. Could she understand? He bit his lip. She _did_ know, _right_? Or was she guessing?

Perhaps it was just better for him to play dumb.

"I don't know what you mean," he insisted with an uncomfortable laugh.

Less than an hour ago, the engineer had arrived and after twenty minutes of checking the connections of the freight elevator—it seemed like twenty hours to Oswald and longer for Cassandra—informed them that the hydraulic line had a leak—looked like it had been leaking steadily for months and needed to be replaced.

"Better to replace than repair, that's what I always say," the engineer had said. The hydraulic fluid was spent, which was why the elevator had stopped. He poured some in just to get it moving again and allow the "young lady" escape.

"The lights went out," he had said, "because there is a hole in the roof and rainwater got in. It rotted away the ceiling and dripped down forming a tiny puddle on top of the car. I can patch it, although that would only be a temporary solution—better to get a roofer out here. Problem is, there is a pigeon family in the shaft. If I patch it, they could perish with no access to food or water."

Oswald warmed to the man immediately. Anyone showing empathy for his feathered friends was a standup guy in his book.

"The birds need to be chased out," he had continued. "If they stay and decide at some point to expire, depending on where their little bodies drop, it could interfere with the mechanics of the machine. I might be able to remove the nest and bring it to the roof. We would just need to cross our fingers that the pigeon parents will follow," he had offered.

"No need for such superstitions such as luck," smiled Oswald, waving that very thought away. "I happen to know for a fact that the parents will follow."

That being said, the nest was removed and the roof and ceiling patched temporarily. The adult pigeons, initially nervous at their home being disturbed, did in fact, as Oswald had said, fly upward through the hole and settle near the nest, which had been placed in the mouth of a discarded concrete gargoyle that lay lonely in a corner. It now had something to guard again.

Oswald felt like that gargoyle. He was going to guard Cassandra whether she liked it or not. By the look on her face, he was betting she was leaning toward the _not_.

Quick as a single flame leaping from a fire, she was leaning over his desk toward him, her face just a few inches from his.

"I mean it, Oswald."

He caught that wonderful gardenia scent and grinned.

"All right," he said, dreamily. "I won't kill him." Then realizing that this agreement subtlety and copiously admitted his guilt, he sat up and caught her arms. "Not that I would have!"

He watched her features as she searched his face, and he felt like a parishioner at confession, only naked and in front of the congregation, instead of inside the confessional and clothed.

Cassandra spoke clearly and deliberately. "Someone like Jeb deserves death. He is a rapist. If I had not managed to fight him off . . ." she let her words trail. Instantly Oswald felt his face go hot from anger at Jeb and guilt from leaving her behind. He clinched his jaw and pressed his lips together.

She looked down and sighed heavily before gazing back into his eyes.

_May I stay in there? May I please just stay in there?_ He begged, getting lost in hers_._

"I am not completely ignorant of your line of work. I know that you don't just run a club, although I am not certain what your endgame is. I also know that there is more demon than human inside of some people."

Oswald was downcast when he spoke. "You are not suggesting that there is more of that inside of me than—"

"Oh! No! No . . ." She crawled over his desk fast and awkward, causing some of the papers to scatter to the floor, and landed ungracefully in his lap. Normally his thoughts would wander to steamier places when she did things like this, and although the desire was there, he had only one thing on his mind right now, and it was eating at him . . .

He was a devil, indeed, he was, and he knew it. But he had to hear her say that he wasn't. Because if she said that he wasn't, she would know for certain that he wasn't, because she was telling him the truth. She always told the truth, and then he could believe her, and feel some kind of honest worthiness.

He held her. He held on tight, the same way he had when those elevator doors had parted and she had reached for him, with him following suit, pulling her from the lightless box.

She kissed the side of his face and smoothed his hair while whispering reassurances into his ear. He leaned into her cheek and neck to let her caress him, welcoming her touch. He played at the fabric around her waist.

_Soft._

He rubbed it between his fingers and gathered it into the palms of his hands, afraid to let go.

_I am not a devil. I am not a devil._

"I love you. I love you," Cassandra cooed between each kiss.

_I am not a devil, because Cassandra says I am not. _

"I love you too," he answered.

_I will not kill him._

"I will not kill him, Cassandra. I promise you," he whispered.

_No, I will not "kill" him._


	44. Chapter 43

Chapter 43

Kim Jong, otherwise known as "Phil", understood and spoke perfect English. Kim's problem was that he was a jerk. Well, that and the fact he was duct taped to a chair.

After Cassandra's dissertation on the reasons that Oswald was not a devil, she had led the comforted man back down the hallway to their room of weaponry prototypes and displayed the ones at hand. She had reproduced the spear umbrella and had several different styles of it lying upon the table and was working on a completely different design that would present the umbrella with a switchblade at its tip. She discussed various ideas with him, which included her reasons for matching a particular umbrella to a specific weapon, which was, of course, to complement the style of each piece best, in order to form the most functional yet eye-pleasing armament.

"Amazing," he would say or "yes, yes, I like that very much."

He was particularly interested in the Black Mambo umbrella with the ivory handle where she had rigged it to disperse three types of vapor: one for temporary paralysis, one to hypnotize, and one to render the recipient unconscious. Each button was color coordinated for the desired effect: green, yellow, and purple, and she had installed a safety lock as a preventative measure against accidental discharging. It could be easily and subtly disengaged with just a brush of one's index finger, but the weapon had yet to be tested as she had not filled the tubes with the actual toxins yet.

He was also interested in what she had conceived for the flamethrower.

"We need smaller canisters," she had said. "The large flamethrower is perfect for big jobs, but smaller tanks are what is needed for that fun little element of surprise. Easier to conceal, easier to carry."

"Just tell me what you need," Oswald had said, and then turned to leave her to continue work on the arsenal. Before he did, he reminded her of the earphones that he had come across during his collection of heap metal and trinkets and pulled open one of the drawers on the worktable to show her.

One set would reduce the noise when working with loud tools or machinery and the other had a wireless radio that would cover the clamor of the outside world.

He removed the latter from the drawer—a pretty rhinestone-encrusted little number—and placed it on her head, snapping the radio into the "on" position. Once Oswald heard the music drifting from behind the foam covers, he shifted the earphones to right behind her ears and rubbed her shoulders, bending his head forward to study her expression.

"Are you sure you want to continue today? I mean, with what has taken place . . ." His words drifted and he gestured in the direction of the hall. Cassandra placed her hand on the side of his face while offering a kiss to the opposite cheek. Oswald closed his eyes.

_Good golly, Miss Molly. This woman is going to be the death of me._ The diamond ring was screaming to be placed on her finger. He just could never seem to find the right time.

_Sweetheart, I am about to carve up a former employee of mine and would be ever so grateful if you would wear this ring as a token of my love._

"Thanks for asking me that—I am still a bit shaky, but want to get back to work." He cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.

"Really," she continued. "I am fine now. You are my knight in shining armor who rescued me and comforted me and fed me . . ."

"You are just teasing me now," he grinned, he did not feel like a hero—he had not known where she was, which made him feel vulnerable and inept, but the more she insisted that he was her knight, the more he began to think it possible. And it was such a good feeling—one that he was not used to having.

She wrapped her arms around his neck.

"No, I'm not kidding." He saw her eyes go foggy and she had this silly grin on her face. Oswald delighted in the knowledge that he was the cause. Cassandra ran her fingers lightly through his hair, almost as faint as a breeze, sending shivers down his spine. He unabashedly stared into her eyes, then at her mouth . . .

_Darling, would you mind terribly if I just sucked on that bottom lip of yours for the next few years?_

Oswald resigned to controlling himself. There was work to be done by both of them, after all.

_But maybe just a little nibble._

No. He would never leave the room if he took a bite.

"Cassandra, my love," he said. "What you have accomplished here is impressive at least and infinitely genius at best. I so look forward to playing with our wonderful toys upon my return." He chuckled, and Cassandra smiled at him.

"What?" she prodded. "What's going on in that mind of yours?"

"I was just thinking that you will be saving me too." He indicated this by nodding his head in the direction of the weapons. "Thank you. Truly."

He hugged her and placed a kiss on her cheek before snugly realigning the headphones, making sure that they covered her ears completely.

Oswald could feel her watching him as he left the room and he looked back at her. She was observing his backend, and her eyes slowly traveled up his frame to meet his gaze. Normally, this would have embarrassed him horribly, the limp making him move unattractively—at least in his mind—but she offered him a wink and an air kiss and screamed "you're welcome".

Oswald chuckled again. She did not realize how loud she was talking because he had turned up the volume on the headset—not uncomfortably loud—but just enough to drown out any unseemly noises. Could not risk her hearing anything—blood-curdling screams, the sound of a saw splintering bone—if he chose to go in that direction, or a condemned man's pleas for mercy, for example.

It was time to get down to business. He had to extract an exit interview from a soon to be deceased—he corrected himself—_discharged _employee.

He burst through the door like a game show host. Fara always enjoyed the moments she got to watch Oswald work. He was morbidly entertaining and frightening as hell.

"_Phil!_ Come on down!" he yelled upon entering, and then got squarely in the man's face. "I may call you that, right?" Even though Oswald knew perfectly well that the man's name was Kim, he would at least be sympathetic in letting the man keep his alias. Oswald had been able to keep his when he was Pablo, so he believed it was the least he could do for this man who was about to start collecting disability checks.

Phil did not respond to Oswald's question. If only the man realized what horrid danger he was in, but Phil certainly did not seem to appreciate his predicament. Oswald glanced up at Fara.

"Has he given you any trouble?"

Fara shook her head. "Sadly, no, aside from a bunch of lip, this joker was pretty boring."

_Lip. Lips. Cassandra's lips. Stop it._

"So, tell the audience a little bit about yourself, _Phil_—did you enjoy leaving my fiancé trapped in a dark elevator? Was it fun for you? Do you get a thrill out of being rude to women? Fara?" Fara nodded.

"He was pretty rude," she agreed. Oswald straightened up and pulled out a pair of freshly laundered white gloves from his top jacket pocket. He put them on slowly, pressing down between each finger to be sure to get a proper fit.

"Phil" shifted in his seat and spit on the vinyl. It was his way of insulting the man before him while simultaneously displaying his lack of common sense in abundance.

Phil thought that he was a baller. Phil was an idiot.

"You think I'm afraid of you?" he spat. "I hear people talk. They laugh at you. They call you a penguin." Oswald glanced up at the man in time to see Fara violently shove him to the floor, still attached to the chair.

"That was splendid of you, Fara. Now please, if you do not mind, set him upright, preferably in the center of the shower curtain. We are still in the getting-to-know-you stage." Oswald smirked with the politeness of a spider inviting a fly for tea, while humming a few bars of the classic song before he continued questioning his newest contestant. "So, _Phil_, you say that you have heard them call me Penguin. Yes, it's true. They have, and I can assure you that will soon be remedied," he nodded, wrinkling his nose. "Now, if you would, tell us with which ear did you hear my poor fiancé asking for help, _hmmmm_?"

"So a whiny chick was trapped in an elevator for a few minutes. Big deal—" Phil was unfortunately unable to finish his eloquent line of reasoning because Oswald was now holding the man's tongue in his hand. It took Phil a jarring moment to realize that Oswald was a few steps back from him. Phil began to squeak.

"Awwww," said Oswald, tilting his head and pouting. "Looks like you've lost round one, Phil. Would you like to see what is behind door number two?" Phil started rocking from side to side and would have tipped over if Fara had not come from behind to steady it.

Oswald hobbled over to Phil and slapped him on the face repeatedly with Phil's own tongue, leaving bloody trails across his nose and cheeks, growing in frenzy until he ended it with a squishy smack to Phil's forehead. Oswald stepped back to look at his handiwork.

"Now _that's _what I call a tongue-lashing!" cheered Oswald, before throwing the appendage onto the man's lap. Fara laughed. Oswald circled them like a falcon before a dive, removing his blade.

Oh, how he enjoyed the click, click, click.

He watched the man's movements and noticed that Phil tried harder to free himself with his right hand. That was also the initial direction he had tried tipping the chair.

"I am going to take an educated guess and say that you are right-handed, _Phil._ Using that line of reasoning, I believe I can confidently conclude that you picked up the receiver with same said hand and held it to your right ear, n'est pas?" With a swoop, Oswald hacked off Phil's ear.

Phil was screaming now, his body coming out of shock and into pain.

"As for listening to unintelligent rodents refer to me as Penguin and then indulging in their same sentiments, can you guess what I am going to do _now_? And remember —shape your answer in the form of a question." Oswald tapped the top of the man's head with the blade as he emphasized that rule of the game. Blood poured from Phil's mouth while he gurgled, having to spit it out before trying to form words. Oswald leaned in, but not too close.

"What was that, Phil? My mama?" He looked directly at the man and pretended to be disappointed. "Tsk. Tsk. It seems to me that you were not raised properly, _Phil_." Phil's eyes widened and he shook his head like a dog after a bath, emphatically denying saying anything about Oswald's mother.

Droplets of blood sullied Oswald face, warm at first and then cooling against his skin. Irritated, he looked at Fara who just shook her head. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket he swore.

"How many of these am I going to have to go through?" he muttered as he cleaned his face.

Fara smirked. "Maybe you should start wearing a mask, boss." He gave her a warning look.

"Like a coward? No, thank you." Then to Phil, he said, "You do realize that you are not scoring any points, don't you? There are no bonus rounds in this game, _Phil_, and the clock is running out." Oswald stepped back with his fists on his hips, and sighed. "_No response? Well then . . _." With pinpoint precision, Oswald lunged and struck off the man's left ear, ignoring Phil's shrieks.

"There!" he said, jovially. "Now you will never have to hear _anyone_ call me penguin ever again. Looks like we both win!" Phil kept screaming. Oswald kneeled awkwardly and patted him on one thigh.

"Now listen, there is good news. You have a lifeline. Literally. My beautiful, thoughtful future wife insisted that I spare your life. See? You _are_ a winner!" Phil kept up his noisiness. It was beginning to irk Oswald.

"Really! You should be beholden to her. You are an incredibly ungrateful man and if it was not for her steadying my blade I would kill you on the spot! I consider it a wedding gift to my bride, so do not go talking, I mean-oops, how insensitive of me." Oswald smirked. He really liked his own jokes. "Do not make me regret letting you live." Fara raised her hand.

"Want me to kill him for you, boss?"

Oswald thought about that for a moment, chewing on his lower lip.

"No," he said, rather dejectedly. "But I appreciate the offer. It would still be an offshoot of myself, even if I technically did not do the killing. Just wrap him up and dump him someplace out of Gotham, and _would you please shut the fuck up_!" He directed the last part toward Phil, punching him in the face, rendering him unconscious. Oswald continued, "If he is not resourceful enough to find his way to hospital and dies, that will be on him."

Fara nodded and moved to topple the man to the floor, but Oswald stopped her briefly to rip off the unemployed man's name badge. Never knew when someone actually named "Phil" might come to work for him. In fact, Oswald decided, that would be a prerequisite. He also decided to keep an ear. After all, Phil had two, and Oswald stuffed the other one into Phil's shirt pocket. He also decided to let Fara keep Phil's tongue—he had been rude to her. It was only fair.

As it turned out, "Phil" was not resourceful in getting to a hospital. He did however happen to get picked up by someone whose cousin knew a medical coder that had a friend who was a morgue attendant who was dating a nurse that worked for a doctor with a rather unusual interest in body parts.


	45. Chapter 44

Chapter 44

Cassandra leaned back in her chair and stretched, sending crackling noises down her spine.

_Oh, man, that felt good_.

She glanced around the room, proud that she had actually accomplished something. She had been creative instead of destructive. Invented something instead of burning something down.

In front of Cassandra lay the blueprint for an umbrella she hoped would act as a shield. She knew she could not use any of the umbrellas here for this particular design. None of them would hold up under the weight of the fabric she would have to use. Not that she had the fabric on hand, anyway, but bullet-resistant fabric was heavy, far heavier than what the spine of a regular umbrella could endure. Therefore, a complete redesign and rebuild was necessary, using sturdier material for the umbrella's skeleton. This in turn would make the overall umbrella weigh more than the others, but its strength must not be compromised. Otherwise, what's the point?

Her neck hurt. She needed to move around. For hours she had been at work on the prototypes and she needed to exercise her muscles. Her butt was numb. When she stood, her lower back screamed at her, but she slowly straightened up, disregarding its complaint.

In her hand was a mock-up sword she had just fashioned, having drawn it out of its sheath—the umbrella itself—and brandishing it as if she were a Musketeer or the pirate Lady Mary Kelligrew. The music Cassandra was listening to was a perfect accompaniment to her swashbuckling movements. She was unaware of Oswald's brief presence at the door as he checked to make sure she had not heard or witnessed Kim's torture. He allowed himself a fleeting moment to admire her performance, which was—Oswald mused—reminiscent of a pasodoble before morphing into a flamenco.

There was a time he would have been able to dance with her like that—sure and graceful—but not anymore. He smiled sadly and closed the door. Cassandra would have been none the wiser that he had been there if he had not decided to leave a decorated box on her table. It had a small bow on top—the shiny kind one would use at Christmas.

When she saw it, she removed her headphones and looked around the room.

_Damn. Was Oswald just here, and I missed him? Oh, geez, he saw me dancing. Twerking should definitely solidify my maturity. _

She also thought of his bum leg and felt sorry for him. She remembered nights back home, when the records played and some of the tenants would dance. She would hold out her hand to Oswald, asking him to dance with her, only to be told "no, thank you". He would wave her request away, and shake his head—not looking her in the eye, but giving a polite grin. That healthy foot of his, however, was always tapping, as Cassandra's finger now lightly tapped the side of the box.

Stuck partially underneath the bow was a notecard. Inside, written in calligraphy by Oswald's own hand was the phrase: "Spend Me".

_Okay._

She opened it. Inside was one-hundred, fifty thousand dollars.

_Okaaaaay._

Suddenly those muscles that had insisted that she stand up needed to sit down again.

These were bills. Real, live, honest-to-goodness bills. Freshly printed cash; better than new-car smell. Better than a new car. The kind of bills that feel like smoothed-down sandpaper and are difficult to separate when counting it. Not that she was counting it. She believed the wrappers. They added up to be a measly $150,000. No biggie.

_Where did this come from and what am I supposed to buy with it?_

She checked the box for another note but there was not one. Then she thought, _I wonder where I could get Kevlar in this city? _She doubted there was a man with a long raincoat lurking in an alleyway whispering to passersby, "Psst. Hey, buddy, interested in some Kevlar? It's pure. The real thing. I'll make you a deal." Then opening up one side of his coat to reveal bolts of cloth and a tape measure.

Cassandra laughed. She liked her own jokes.

One thing she was sure of—she needed to get outside for a while. Clear her head. Buy something for Oswald. She had something in mind.

Although the nearest hardware store was five blocks away, she gathered up the wood and the mesh she had just bought, paying cash, and dragged the bundle down the sidewalk behind her back to the club. She made an interesting sight. At least the clerk had given her a burlap bag in which to "carry" it. It came halfway up the parcel. By the time she returned home, the bag had a big hole in the bottom of it.

She was going to build a coop on the roof. Years of repairing them on the farm had given her the skills she needed to do so. She only wished the store had sold hay, but settled for woodchips instead.

Oswald could have his feathered pets again. She knew they had died when he was a boy, but she did not know how. She did not quite understand the pain of losing a pet, having been brought up in an atmosphere where the pig one befriends one day might be the breakfast bacon the next, so it helped not to form attachments to the edible ones.

Oswald had been especially helpful when it had come to feeding and caring for the chickens on the farm. He had a knack. They flocked to him. He was a bird magnet. A foul-whisperer.

Cassandra laughed at herself again. Double entendres were fun.

It was not long until Cassandra had stopped serving chicken all together—Oswald had become so attached. Before the fire at the farm, Cassandra had been able to find them homes. She had done that for all the animals, which was not many—the chickens, of course, the pigs, a cow, two goats, and a horse. All had new homes.

_And so do I, _she thought happily_. _She could only hope the animals were as content.

As soon as she walked in the backdoor of Oswald's, she was caught by her shoulders and slammed up against a wall, causing her purchases to clatter to the floor.

"_Where the hell were you_?" Oswald breathed into her face, his own contorted into a mixture of fury and fear.

"You told me to spend it," she said meekly, caught off guard, but quickly growing angry.

"Do not ever leave this establishment again!" he yelled.

"Oh, all right, _Torvald_!" she yelled back, pushing his hands off her. Her heart was pounding fast and unwanted tears sprang to her eyes. He stepped back, still mad, but also shocked.

"What? No! It's not like that at all! _And you know that_!" His bottom lip began to quiver. "I do not treat you like a plaything and my behavior and attitude toward you has _never_ been as an unequal. _Tell me that I am not right_!"

"I never once told _you _not leave the farm!"

Oswald raised an eyebrow. "Oh, did you not, my dear?" he asked quietly.

_Wait a minute . . ._

"That's . . ." Cassandra pressed her lips together. "That's not what _I _meant and _you_ know that! I never _ordered_ you not to leave!"

"You are right. You begged me not to—" he said, still speaking softly. She opened her mouth to say something and Oswald held up his index finger. "With good reason," he continued. "Reason that I still give thanks for every day," he encompassed her shoulders again, gently this time. She let him. "Now it is I who begs you not to go out—not without a bodyguard."

_What is he so afraid of?_

"I couldn't find Fara, and Gabe was with your mother, and I don't trust Butch."

Oswald smirked. "You and I think alike," he said, pulling her into an embrace and looking over her shoulder. "I see you got the money." He burrowed his brows. "What _is_ that?"

_Dammit. He should really stop smelling good when I am angry with him. _

When she did not answer, he stepped around her to pick up the wood and mesh, holding it up with a quizzical look on his face. Cassandra could not help but chuckle.

"It was supposed to be a surprise," she said. "I am building you a pigeon coop, like the one you had when you were young—well, not exactly like it. This one is going to be much smaller, I'm afraid."

Oswald slowly lowered his arms and cleared his throat, his eyes fixed on her.

"No one—" he started, clearing his throat again. "No one has ever—" He shook his head and shrugged, his mouth turned downwards.

Cassandra approached him and smoothed the hair along his temples, placing her forehead against his. His eyes were closed, but she could see the wetness that outlined his lashes.

"Thank you," he finally managed to say. "I am overcome. No one has ever thought . . ." He stopped briefly to clear his throat again. "No one has ever thought to do something so nice for me."

"You're welcome. I'm happy to do it for you because I love you and I thought you would like it." He nodded.

"I do," he said.

"And now," said Cassandra, "I have a question for you." He nodded again while setting the items at his feet. "Where did the money come from?"

"It was the insurance money Jeb collected from the fire on your—his—_your_ farm." Cassandra was surprised by his directness.

"How did _you_ come by it?"

"Jeb felt in his gut that it should go to you." She noticed a smirk he tried to hide.

_Huh._

"He said this?"

Oswald threw his hands in the air. "Cassandra, I killed him. Jeb is dead. I killed Jeb. I am a bad person. I took the insurance check and managed to get it cashed without raising any suspicion." Unbeknownst to Cassandra, he purposefully left out the part about pocketing a fifty-thousand dollars finder's fee Oswald took for himself, because—you know—he _had_ found him. "I did it. It was me. There."

Just as she had suspected. And hoped.

"Can anyone trace his . . . disappearance to you?"

Oswald did not speak for a moment. When he did, it was to stutter out a "no".

_I'm glad Jeb is dead. I am glad._

Cassandra nodded. "Okay," she said and began to pick up all the items to take to the roof. Oswald bent to help but did not take his eyes off her.

"Cassandra?"

_Jeb is dead. Ding-dong the wicked witch is dead_.

"Cassandra? Cassandra, you're humming. Are you okay? Are you mad at me? Do you still love me? Are you going to leave me? _Cassandra?_"

She turned to look at him.

_Was he shivering? What was wrong with her? Look at him. He is a mess._

She dropped the items and threw her arms around his neck.

"I'm glad he's dead, Oswald!" she cried. "I am so glad." Oswald released the wood and mesh and hugged her back. She sobbed on his shoulder. "Does that make me a horrible person?"

"Look who you're asking."

"Well, I don't care if it makes me a horrible person . . ."

"For the record, you are not a horrible person . . ." he interrupted.

". . . for being glad that criminal is dead. I'm not leaving you. I'll never leave you. I'm not mad, and yes—I still love you." She felt him relax.

"I love you too, which is why I was wondering if you would mind wearing this." He took something out of his pocket and backed away from her, placing an object on the floor. It was one of the brass toys they had made together on the farm, like the one she had kept too.

It waddled its way toward her like a penguin, which it was, and she wondered how she was supposed to wear a toy. Then she saw something sparkle on top.

_Is that a ring? _

She looked at Oswald. His eyes were wide and luminous, the pupils dilated.

"Do you still want to marry me?" he asked, down on one knee. She knew that had to hurt.

"Oswald, get up."

"Not until you answer me."

Cassandra's eyes sparkled brighter than the diamond.

"Yes."

She picked up the little bird, but Oswald had flown to her side before she could remove the ring. Quick as wink, Oswald did it and placed it on her finger.

"It is a perfect fit," she told him.

"Just like us," they both said in unison.

_Should I ask him where he got the ring?_ She glanced at Oswald. His face was glowing and he looked so proud and happy.

_Probably not. I will save that for another day._


	46. Chapter 45

Chapter 45

Tomorrow morning, Oswald would meet again with Conner to finalize preparations for Maroni's takedown. Tonight he was going to spend time indulging his fiancé—who was hammering two pieces of wood together.

Cassandra had requested gloves and, lo and behold, Oswald had a spare pair tucked away within his vest. When he held them to her, she gave him a why-am-I-not-surprised-about-this look. Still, she took them because she wanted to protect the engagement ring he had just offered her—did not want to scratch it, but was too paranoid to take it off her finger. She was afraid she would lose it.

He had been a wreck offering it to her, although he thought he had done a fine job of playing it cool. He could be quite dapper, even in the midst of chaos.

It had been hard enough asking her to accept him as her husband the first time—_husband, I really like the sound of that_—so revisiting the scenario after having just confessed to a killing, and _then_ the fact that he had literally finished bloodying up another scalawag, not to mention that he had panicked when could not find Cassandra _again_—for the second time, on the same damn day after he had already lost her once . . . well, Oswald was just really, _really_ glad he had unlimited access to alcohol.

He had a bottle of champagne in his hand now and was seriously considering pouring it on Cassandra and sucking it off her. They were on the roof of Oswald's and the sun was setting, but she wanted to get this coop built before it was too dark for her to see. He liked the way her body shimmied when she struck the nail with the hammer and wondered if she would move like that when . . .

His thoughts were interrupted when one of his restaurant servers appeared at the roof access door. Oswald had asked him to bring up a blanket and a meal—not forgetting candles. He was followed by two more staff members who carried chairs and a table. Oswald had not requested this. Word of Phil's dismissal must have gotten around, striking fear and renewed loyalty into the hearts and minds of his employees, but he was grateful nonetheless.

Oswald popped the cork on the champagne and the sound echoed across the rooftops, briefly intertwining with the sound that reverberated against the buildings from the hammer hitting the nail. Cassandra stopped for a moment and looked back over her shoulder at him, watching him pour the bubbly. He had helped her steady the planks and hold the mesh in place, while the pigeon family sat curiously watching them from their gargoyle. The coop was almost finished.

She admired Oswald's silhouette against the darkening sky. His jacket was folded inside out and laying on top of the burlap bag along with his cross-tie. His vest was open and his white shirt was unbuttoned to mid-chest, displaying a pale triangle of flesh. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Oswald was oblivious to Cassandra studying the subtle flex of his muscles as he fiddled with the bottle and glasses while he gazed over the Gotham skyline.

"What is _this_?" she asked him, amused, as she rose from her knees, brushing off the gravel. The tiny pebbles left indentions in her skin, making her knees look pockmarked. He pivoted on his good leg and offered her a flute of the sweet, fizzy liquid as the workers set up the table and chairs, lighting the candles before making a hasty retreat. The briny smell of fresh seafood wafted around them, mixed in with a faint sweet smell from whatever desert lay hidden underneath the silver lid. All this blended with the pungent aroma of the city.

He set his flute down on the white linen that draped the table and took her free hand, which happened to the one the engagement ring sat proudly on. Slowly he began to remove the glove, finger by finger, kissing each one as he went, confiscating the glove and tossing it on the table.

"This happens to be a celebration, my love." He spoke low and slowly, turning over her hand and licking her palm. He felt her shiver and heard her light gasp.

_I want to lick you everywhere_, he thought, looking up at her through heavy eyelids. He took her drink and placed it on the table and then repeated the process with her other hand. When he glanced again at her, she was biting her bottom lip and watching him, her pupils like a dark full moon. He watched her teeth tug on her lip.

_Hey, I want to do that_.

So he did. Until he heard a catcall, which jolted them both out of their stupor.

They were on the roof after all, visible to curious or passing eyes. Oswald blushed, but Cassandra seemed unbothered.

This gave him an idea. He remembered how he had desired for all of Gotham to know that Cassandra was his and that she wanted him too. With this in mind, he climbed upon the concrete barrier that lined the rooftop with Cassandra hanging on to his pants and insisting that he get down. Instead, he shouted to Gotham that he was a taken man.

"I love Cassandra!" He spread his arms wide like a bird in flight.

_Up yours, half-dressed fat man in yonder building yelling obscenities_!

He grabbed Cassandra and pulled her up beside him, both of them wobbling unsteadily. She yelped.

"Oswald, is this wise?"

Staring into her eyes, he yelled at the top his lungs: "Cassandra loves me Gotham! _She's mine_!" Then finished his declaration with a passionate kiss.

The male resident who had shouted his initial commentary decided to make his feelings regarding their public display of affection official and indisputable by removing his pants and flashing the couple. Affectionately showing his public display.

"Ugh, nobody wants to see that," muttered Oswald, holding up his hand as if shielding his eyes from the glaring sun.

Cassandra nodded. "Oh, yeah. I'm blind." She stared at Oswald's shoulder. Oswald decided to respond to this citizen's remark.

"They are referred to as curtains, sir! You can get them in any retail store!"

He looked at Cassandra and smirked, chortling. He was rather amused with himself. She patted his chest and grinned.

_Cassandra tested. Cassandra approved_.

"It's called a room! You can get one in any building!" the man yelled back.

_Ah, hell no! Even if he did have a point, ah, hell no! I will not have this exhibitionist show me up in front of Cassandra._ _How dare the venomed full-gorged scut!_

Before Oswald could respond. Cassandra shared her own opinion.

"Sir, it's called a thimble! Please cover yourself with one! You can find them in any sewing shoppe!"

Oswald practically choked.

_Well, damn_, he thought—surprised, speechless, impressed. _Did she really just say that_?

Then she moved slightly until they were face to face, grabbed his bum, and planted a long, wet kiss on him. The unexpected grope nearly knocked him off balance, but he recovered, holding onto her, one hand splayed on her back, the other one held up in a fist above his head. A symbol of victory.

The wind approved and tousled their hair.

Cassandra broke the kiss and brushed the back of her arm and hand across her mouth, starting at her elbow, eyeing their heckler. She wanted to make sure the man in the opposite building saw her. He did and disregarded them both with a flap of his hands before disappearing into the shadows of his apartment.

She grinned up into Oswald's face, grasping his lapels, and slouching against him just a little.

"He liked it," she said, laughing.

"So did I," he emphatically responded.

"Well, if you come down off this ledge, I'll do it again."

"Yes, Ma'am," he said hardily. He held on to her as they both gingerly lowered themselves to sit on the concrete before sliding down to sure footing upon the rooftop. "It would be my pleasure."

"As well as mine," she breathed, not giving him a moment to adjust his pants that had ridden up. Not that it mattered now with her hands on his backside, squeezing his cheeks and pulling him towards her, creating a hefty amount of wrinkles in the material across his butt.

He groaned into her mouth.

_There is that lip I am going to suck on every night—and day—for the rest of my life._ He tugged on it with his teeth and peeked through his lashes to see her smiling. Her eyes were closed.

_She was so soft. It should be illegal for someone to be this soft_. She was like a down pillow and he just wanted to lay his head upon her and wrap himself around her, burying himself in her, praying daylight never comes.

Increased cooing gently brought them back into the world. The pigeons were inspecting their new digs, and a few of their friends had apparently heard that there was rent-controlled apartments available upon the roof of Oswald's.

Oswald good naturedly snickered and ran his hand down the crook of Cassandra's back and over the curve of her rear.

"Looks like they are waiting on us to finish their home," he whispered, placing butterfly kisses up and down the side of her face.

"Yes," she said, caressing his chest, leaning her forehead against his chin. "Won't be long until the sun is completely gone. I suppose we should finish up." They kissed each other once more before concentrating on fixing the last piece of the pigeon coop puzzle, putting it all together. The birds seemed satisfied and started moving in immediately, including the original pigeon family.

Cassandra confiscated the now deserted gargoyle. "Because she did not want him to be alone," she told Oswald.

The candles were halfway melted when they finally sat down to dinner. The champagne was warm and half-fizzled. The food was at room temperature, had they been in a room, and the dessert, which included ice cream, was now a cool soup with chocolate mush in the center and congealed raspberry goo for decoration.

Despite this, while the final dregs of the sun set behind Cassandra in flavors of orange Jell-O and pink lemonade and the enamored couple played footsie under the table—even his bad leg got in on this game—Oswald believed this to be the best meal he had experienced in very long time.


	47. Chapter 46

Chapter 46

Oswald gazed at Cassandra in the hazy moonlight. She looked every inch the part of a film noire damsel—the one that causes distress, instead of being in it—but he would save her, nonetheless.

A cool mist was settling among the city streets, rolling past the lamplights in lazy waves. If Cassandra and Oswald had looked over the edge of the rooftop, they would have believed themselves passengers on a mortar and brick ship going nowhere, a stationary vessel surrounded by a grey, slithering ocean.

Interested only in each other—not the stealth fog or the chilled air or the way the shadows fell and moved around them, they settled beside each other upon the linen cloth that had been removed from the table and spread across the granules in order that they may sit and indulge in a second bottle of champagne. This one was cold and bubbly and quickly was being consumed.

His mother would have considered the belching contest that was currently underway incredibly uncouth, especially since he was winning, even alarming the pigeons into silence. The deja vu of seafood and chocolate combined with the champagne that revisited the back of his throat was, oddly enough, not that unpleasant. However, he _was_ wishing he had asked for mints because he really wanted to kiss Cassandra again. It had escaped his mind that the inside of her mouth would taste like his. He just wanted very much not to offend her.

Oswald's eyes twinkled and he laughed at her whenever she offered her meager burps. It was like watching the Mona Lisa try to 'hock a loogie'. Even when she extended her chin like a rooster about to crow—the veins in her neck standing out—and patted her stomach, trying to encourage the carbonation to come back up, she was beautiful and he still could not understand what she was doing with him. It was made all the more confusing for him because she was not afraid of him, nor was she stupid, nor was he blackmailing her.

"Maybe I should just tickle you," he grinned, poking her in the ribs. "That should help."

She playfully pushed him away and he prodded her a few more times, while she chuckled and continued to capture his hands until a burp so loud erupted from her, the pigeons fluttered and squawked.

She immediately slapped her hand over her mouth, her eyes wide, but Oswald could see the merriment in them. "Excuse me!" she yelled, from behind her fingers, proud and horrified at the same time.

"_Oh my gosh_," he said, laughing. "That was scarier than all of mine combined! _You frightened the pigeons_!" He grinned with a flourish of his hand towards the birds. Still in mid gesture to them, he looked back at Cassandra and smiled.

Cassandra doubled over, laughing. "So sorry, pigeons!"

Five of the birds left their roosts and landed on Oswald's outstretched arm.

"Well, hello there, my beauties," he said, as he stroked one upon its head. It closed its eyes and cooed. He felt Cassandra's gaze upon him and returned it.

"That's amazing," she whispered. "I will never get used to you being able to charm birds like that." He looked again to the feathered creatures, but his mind was set on entertaining Cassandra. Knowing she was captivated by his ability was a subtle aphrodisiac for him. The way her eyes sparkled and the rapt attention she was lavishing on him was giving him a high.

He felt giddy. This was something new he could show her with the pigeons.

He was going to flaunt his talent.

"Enjoying the moonlight, are we, my dears? Do you like your new home?" He looked back to Cassandra and acknowledge her with a nod. "This lovely lady is to thank. Yes, she is, my pets. You should thank her." He flexed him arm slightly and the five birds went to Cassandra and perched themselves on various areas of her body—her shoulder, an arm, her lap, even the top of her head.

Oswald looked at _that _pigeon as if it had just told an inappropriate joke. "Not there," he said, with a flick of his finger, and the bird flew down to the linen, close to Cassandra's knee. The one in her lap settled in as if it were going to stay for the night. Cassandra did not move a muscle. She could fell tiny claws grasping her clothing, and bits of feather drifted down around her like snow.

"I don't know how you do that."

Oswald shrugged, obviously enjoying her praise and wide-eyed enthrallment, but had no answer for her.

"All right, children. Go to sleep." He motioned with his hand and the pigeons flew into the coop. He was looking at them, but turned back to Cassandra when he heard her move.

She had set the glass to the side and was crawling toward him on her hands and knees. Oswald felt his neck flush and his heart rate increase. She stopped when her nose touched the tip of his, then she unhurriedly tilted her head—only slightly so that her nose brushed against the length of his, until their mouths met, placing a slow, gentle kiss upon his parted lips.

His nerves were so alive it made his body hurt.

_I don't know what I'm doing_, he thought. _But this time I'm not going to stop. As long as she will have me, I am going to continue. I really, really want to continue. But I do not know what I am doing. What if I mess up? How would I mess up? What if I hurt her? What if I am not any good? What if_—_?_

She was depositing smaller kisses on his mouth, nuzzling him with her nose, but not touching him otherwise. It was driving him mad.

_I should stop her. I really want to do this right. I have done everything else wrong. I want this to be perfect._

She stopped kissing him and sat back on her haunches.

_Wait. Why is she stopping? Is it my breath? I knew I should have asked for mints_.

He tried subtly to smell his own breath.

"I want you to know that this has been perfect," she said. "The dinner, the setting, most of all—the company . . . and the ring is beautiful, especially the inscription."

Oswald did take personal pride in that—the one thing he was able to do from his heart—a gift of words, untainted. He had chosen a quote from his favorite poet, John Keats, plucked from a letter Keats had written to the object of his fancy, Fanny Brawne. The inscription read: "My Creed is Love and you are its only tenet."

It had reminded Oswald of the letter he had penned to Cassandra on the eve he had parted from her. A soul-crushing memory of a night—Cassandra still kept the letter close to her heart and Oswald would never forget her confession of love for him.

No one had whispered such amorous words to him before and Oswald had sworn he heard the happy burst of trumpets and the joyous sound of angels singing when she declared her want of him. What a fool he had been—absurd, indeed, deserting her the way he had. He needed her to know how deep and true his affections were for her.

_Very soon, she will be mine completely. _

"It does my heart such good—I am practically bursting even—that you flavor the sentiment," he said. She giggled and he blushed, grinning. "_Favor_. I am glad you favor the sentiment. It is from a love letter by John Keats."

She nodded and looked at him with a grin. "I know," she responded. "Growing up, anytime I could steal a few lazy hours, whenever I wasn't tinkering in the basement, I was reading in my bedroom."

Oswald nodded this time. "Yes, yes. I remember you saying that—as a child—your escape, mine as well—as you know. I fondly recall the many shelves of books that graced your home."

"All ashes now," she said sadly. Oswald's smile quickly dissipated. He wanted to kill Jeb a third time. Maybe he would dig him up and stab him again for the hell of it.

Finally, a love all his own. His, and his alone, and she was haunted by too much sadness. He would change that.

He was so close to beating them all. So close to owning Gotham. To acquiring respect from every underling that had contributed to his nightmare of an existence, and he would hunt down all the scumbags that had ever wronged Cassandra and make them regret it. He would rule over all of them, and Cassandra would be there beside him.

He leaned forward and grasped the back of her head in his hand, knotting his fingers in her dark hair and drawing her to himself. The kiss he placed upon her mouth was direct and possessive. She scarcely had a moment to catch her breath before she melted into him as he wrapped his other arm around her to support her and pull her close.

With Cassandra by his side, he could do anything. _Nothing can stop me_. He abruptly broke the kiss and looked at her, his fingers still firmly entangled in her hair.

"Marry me _now_," he insisted, breathless.

"What?" she whispered, that familiar fog within her eyes. He always enjoyed watching her come out of her dazes after they had been kissing. It would be his life's mission to make sure she was thoroughly fogged.

"_Right now_," he repeated.

"Okay."

With the precision of a sharpened pin busting a balloon, Oswald's phone rang.

"Give to me!" she demanded. "I am going to throw it over the building!"

Although perturbed about _another_ inopportune interruption, he laughed at Cassandra's reaction, and seriously considered following her orders.

_Unfortunately, and with great remorse, I must not._

He was too close to the fulfillment of his original mission and could not risk any misstep now. One wrong move may delay victory for him. He was ready to stop the struggle. The win was his, but he had to act now.

Just one more day. Almost there. Then the bloodbath will begin, and he would be king of everything.

"I want to." It rang again.

_Damn. It._

"You want to what?" she whispered into his ear. Her warm breath caused just enough of a tingle upon his flesh to give him goose pimples.

"Just . . ." _The incessant ringing_. "I really do have to take this . . ."

The combination of Cassandra's look of fury with the lamplight behind her, illuminating her form, called to Oswald's mind the image of a goddess on fire and his concentration reeled. He wanted to douse her heat with his mouth, and had to bite down on his teeth to keep from kissing her.

_Ring. _

"Soon . . ." he told her, still holding her firmly, but answering the cell. "Yes?" His voice cracked as he spoke into the receiver, watching Cassandra crawl into his lap to straddle him. He winced. It was not from the pain in his leg.

_Oh, noooooooo . . . not now . . . I shall not . . . she is . . . wow . . ._

He closed his eyes so at least he would not see her, but he most certainly felt her. One hand was on his throat as she nipped her way up the side of his neck and back down again. Her other hand . . .

"_Stop_—No, I'm not talking to you!" he growled into the receiver as he grabbed Cassandra's hand, preventing it from traveling downward. He felt her lean back.

_She is staring at me_.

He escorted her hand upward and held it firmly, but gently, against his chest.

_I dare not look at her lest my mind go blank._

The person on the other end of the line told him that his order was ready, there just some final details with the recent purchases. Oswald knew they were referring to the guns he was in the midst of procuring. They were going to be his ticket to the throne of Gotham. He would have to leave to inspect the goods. As a precaution, he would take Gabe and Butch with him and have Fara stay here with Cassandra.

"On my way," he told the person on the other end of the phone.

Opening his eyes, bright blue ones stared back into his. He sighed as he released Cassandra's hand, which remained resting on his chest, and touched her face. He wondered if she could the pulsation of his heart underneath her palm and if she understood the significance.

His heart was in her hand.

Cassandra's mood had transformed from randy and irritated to concern and apprehension and she was looking at him as though she was afraid it would be the last time she would see him.

"I cannot lose you," she said. "Please come back safely. Someday I'll be able to make all the weapons you will ever want, and you will never have to leave again. You'll see . . ." He touched his forehead to hers and ran his hands down the sides of her arms and back up to her shoulders, pulling her into an embrace.

"I know," he said, planting a final kiss upon her brow.

"Can't you just send the birds?" she asked, trying to lighten the mood. He chuckled before pulling her up with him and leading her through the roof access door back into Oswald's.

_After this war is set in motion_, he thought. _Once the first hit is made—I_ _am going into hiding with her. Somewhere where no one can find us. No more interruptions. Even if it is just for a little while. _

_I will sit back and watch the mafia families destroy each other while my life finally begins._


	48. Chapter 47

Chapter 47

"Oswald?" Cassandra questioned, as he led her down the poorly lit stairwell that led back to the habitable parts of Oswald's. He alternated between leaning on the bannister every few steps to rest his leg and turning abruptly to steal a kiss.

_There was no need for him to steal one—or a few_. _She would gladly give them to him_, she mused, after he had just plucked another one from her lips before resuming his slow shamble down the mildewed passageway. The smell reminded her of the farm basement and the mushrooms that would pop up near the swamp.

She admired the back of his head, jet-black hair revealing subtle blue highlights as the light from the naked bulbs slinked over them.

"Hmmmm?" he responded.

"Did you kill Phil?" He stopped on the stair in front of her and leaned against the wall in order that he may look at her without losing his balance—or maybe he would. He had not been caught in a while.

"Of course not," he said, a trace of irritation in his voice. "I promised that I would not and I have kept my promise to you. Phil left this establishment alive. _Maybe not so well_," he snickered. "But alive."

"Can he walk?" Oswald looked at the wall across from him and raised his eyebrows. Pursing his lips he responded, "_Ahh_ . . . . . . well, he still had both of his legs when he left." A cheesy smile spread across his face.

"What exactly did you do to him?" She ignored the half-smirk on her own face. She was supposed to be concerned.

He leaned the back of his head against the cool concrete and groaned.

"Darling, there is not enough time right now for me to tell you. But I will . . . later," he gave her those hound-dog eyes—the bullshitter breed kind—and then turned to continue their descent. The uneven clop from his gait and the thud from her boots resonated around them.

"Oswald?" she asked again.

"Hmmmmm?"

"I think I should go with you." He stopped to look at her, and she continued. "I am your weapons procurer after all." _Deny that one, sweetheart_.

"How do you know I am buying weapons?"

"I heard the whole conversation," she said leaning into him. "I was pretty close, as you recall." She ran her fingers along the top of his pants waistline. He let out a little laugh and shook his head.

"No, absolutely not. It would not be safe. These men I deal with, when they got an eyeful of you . . ." He let the rest of his thought trail off into the cool air.

"I bet Fara goes." Oswald nodded unsurely. "_Uh huh_ . . . on occasion . . ."

"How do those men react to Fara?"

"The same way they would react to you—like a pack of ravenous wolves on leashes."

"Yet she goes."

"They are afraid of Fara—with good reason," he said titling his head. "If they aren't, they learn quickly."

"I have a flamethrower."

She watched him bite his lips to keep from grinning, but that amusement never seemed to escape his eyes.

"I would not be able to concentrate with you there," he admitted. "But, if you think you could be of more use to me going than staying here to continuing working on those formidable weapons you reviewed with me—the _same said weapons_, may I remind you, that would eventually prevent me from having to on these troublesome errands—then, okay. You can go."

She saw right through that ruse. _Nice try, gypsy boy._

"Oh, great! Thanks, hon," she said with a chirper smile, kissing the top of his head. Oswald frowned and his voice went up an octave as he protested.

"What? No! No. No . . . _noooo_. Absolutely not. You are not going. No, and that's _final_."

As they both got into the backseat of the car, Oswald asked her to reconsider. Fara and Butch were in the SUV behind them, waiting to follow.

"Look, I cannot force you to stay—well, actually I _could_—" Cassandra slammed her hand down beside her on the car seat and glared at him, "_But I am not going to_!" He emphasized like a kid just caught with a carton of unopened cigarettes. "You need to trust me—"

"I do trust you, but if you needed me and I was not there and something happened to you—"

"_Bringing a flamethrower_," he gestured to the weapon on the floorboard, his frustration manifesting itself in his voice. "Is not exactly a sign of a peaceful, mutually beneficial agreement! _I_—for one—am _always _privy to a good incendiary device, but when they see us coming with _that_!" he motioned to it again.

"_That's why we need smaller ones_!" she reiterated. He slung his head against the back of the seat before suddenly sitting up again to face her.

"_Which is exactly why you should stay here and work on it!_" She almost forgot what she was going to say next with those giant, heartbreakingly gorgeous eyes staring back at her.

Resembling an impatient Italian mother, she stressed with her hands. "_How am I supposed to learn about Gotham and what you do if you will not tell me anything_?"

After a brief pause, he said, "You're right. It is just that we are so close. _So close_ . . . then I would have the leisurely time to show you so much, without interruption, without a deadline." He turned away from her and placed a hand over his eyes, resting his elbow on the back of the seat. He peered over his hand and out the window.

She watched him a moment. He sighed and then said, "Okay, Gabe. Let's go."

"No, stop," Cassandra said with resignation in her voice. "I'll stay," she said. "But this is the _last time_," she warned him pointing a finger at him. His face went from clouds to sunshine and he hugged her fiercely.

"Thank you. Thank you, Cassandra." He smiled and kissed her quickly. "Gabe, I will be right back." Oswald climbed over his fiancé and opened the door on her side of the car, grabbing her hand and pulling her out of the vehicle. He waved for Fara to follow them inside.

Once back inside the comfortable boundary of the club, Oswald drew Cassandra into a hug, burying his chilled nose against the warm flesh of her neck. She shivered at the contact and felt the dampness of his scarf against her skin, but kept a firm hold on him regardless.

Fara had the presence of mind to give them privacy.

"You'll see," he said. "Someday soon. The time is nigh. The cards are dealt. The crown is being passed. You will know much, and I will _never_ leave. It is going to be a brand-new day for us, Cassandra. Just you wait and see." He smothered her hands with his kisses then swiftly let go, heading for the door. He stopped as he opened it and glanced back at her.

"I love you," he said.

"I love you too," she responded, offering a weak wave, and then he was gone.

_Leaving me again_, she thought. _And he has my toy._

Neither had thought to remove the flamethrower from the back of the car.


	49. Chapter 48

Chapter 48

_I should have listened to Cassandra_, Oswald thought as he watched the last of the Russian mafia that had been prepared to kill him disintegrate in front of his eyes. No crematorium needed for that red. And he was red. Literally.

It had not been hard to convince this upstart of a mob, the same ones who wanted control of Falcone's enterprises, to join forces with him in defeating Maroni. All he had to do was convince them that they would be one-step closer to becoming powerful under Falcone's leadership once the threat of Maroni was gone, even went as far as insinuating they would be in control of Maroni's businesses after the big guy was six feet under.

Besides, who needed another Italian eatery when everyone in Gotham knew that Russian cuisine was the way to go? Actually, Oswald liked this idea. He may even open a restaurant himself. Smoked fish, caviar, and nesting dolls.

They had a laugh and shared a shot of vodka—well, he pretended to, anyway, throwing it over his shoulder.

Fun part was—the upper Russian lieutenants did not know Oswald was making a deal with their lower minions. Would not even miss them if they were gone.

Money and an earful of beautiful lies could get a man anything he wanted. Right now, Oswald wanted guns. He had intended to take these men out as soon as he had the weapons; he had not realized he would need to dispose of them sooner—the traitorous bastards. They had brought the gunrunners with them—_the actual Russian dealers_—and they were looking for a cut as well.

They had reneged on their end of the bargain, and Oswald did not look kindly on people who were dishonest. _What was the problem with people today_?

They had pulled into the warehouse, Butch in the SUV behind them, to be greeted by eight men, five of whom were not on the guest list. Once the uncomfortable introductions and unpleasantries were out of the way, the rebargaining began—at least, that is what the Russians thought was happening.

Oswald was restrategizing all right, but it would only benefit himself. This little hiccup had annoyed him. It did not behoove Oswald when his plans went awry, but it was especially bad for others. Butch had already unlatched the back of the SUV, removing a case full of dough, and was ready to load the back with arms.

_Looks like I will be loading it with legs and heads too_, Oswald pondered with a malevolent grin.

They had ordered only a few specific guns, but the runners had been efficient enough to include others for purchasing.

_How resourceful of them._

Oswald decided he wanted it all. Right now. At no cost to him.

Gabe and Butch had managed to put slugs into the original three hooligans that had been foolish enough to make a bargain with Oswald—_ugh, this was supposed to go smoothly_—but the five new players were not so easily convinced. They apparently did not like the idea of being riddled with bullets. So Oswald settled on taking one out with his knife.

He could never get over the initial joy that dripped over him from the feel of the knife plunging into flesh—that little restraint and then the final give. The warmth of the blood and its coppery smell. The look of surprise and fear in the eyes of his victim.

_You_, Oswald would think to himself as he watched the life being sucked out of his prey, _are something I will never be again._

Each time he killed was another step away from who he used to be—frail, weak, useless. Each life he snuffed out was a bizzaro suicide. He killed off a part of himself that he hated. How many did he have to kill before he was completely dead? It was something Oswald never stopped to consider. The more lives he took, the closer he became to morphing inwardly into a rotted corpse himself, not escaping into the form of a reborn man as he believed he would become.

Oswald was treading the path of altering into animated flesh, completely hollow, with only a scrap of conscience clinging to an almost dead soul. But he continued out of blind, perverted hope.

And survival.

He had survived. They had the goods. The SUV was piled with guns, ammo, and his money. The flamethrower had saved his life.

The man he had knifed had trapped Oswald at the car, its backdoor flung open. Butch and Gabe had been preoccupied with their own dilemmas and the Russian had held a gun on Oswald, laughing and clutching his bloodied side. Oswald had kept his convincing look of fear upon his face and pleaded with the man not to kill him, all the while, his hand on the wand of the flamethrower, hidden from sight.

Cassandra would have loved to see the fire marionette—well, a paper one perhaps, not one so . . . _lively_, Oswald had mused, as the look of terror crossed the man's face before he was covered in liquid fire. A lovely ballet, graceful—a pirouette, a bow, a reach for the heavens and then down—a fiery dead swan.

If only that that man had stayed in Russia. It was his fault. Greedy rat.

Now as Oswald stood in the partially lit room looking down at Cassandra, he convinced himself he would not tell her she had been right. Her prediction had been true, even though he had not heeded it. He was grateful the flamethrower had been in the car, otherwise . . . no, he would not consider it. He always had a way of surviving.

Oswald stank of smoke and burnt flesh. He shut the bathroom door, only a little so that the sound of the shower would not wake her, making sure there was a panel of light still spilling into the darkened bedroom. He peeled the reeking clothes off his body and slid under the cool stream.

After a moment, he thought he heard something.

_What is that?_

He shut off the valve and heard Cassandra screaming and for a moment, his heart stopped.

Grabbing his robe he slid it on while simultaneously slinging the bathroom door open wide, demanding that its light glare into the room. The force of which he had opened it caused it to hit the wall and leave a hole, but still Cassandra screamed and even Oswald embracing her did not quench it. Her body was rigid and he jumped from the bed turning on the overhead light and every lamp in the room. Oswald even turned on the television and clamored back in the bed to nestle her against his chest, rocking her and speaking in soothing tones. He ignored the shrieking pain of his leg.

She was not awake, yet she cried out. She did not hear her own screams and Oswald marveled at that. He whispered to her, his arms encasing her like armor. Cassandra hushed and her body went limp as he murmured to her, encouraging her to kill it—that he would help her.

_Make it bleed_, he told her.

His own body was tense and his heart was pounding. His eyes were wide and he did not notice that he was shaking. It had been different on the farm, coming in as "second in command" to her uncle to care for her. This time, there was no one but himself. Only him. He would have to have Fara or _someone _with her when she slept whenever he was not around.

Usually the amount of light that had illuminated her room would have been enough, but with the events of the day—being trapped in a dark elevator and perhaps even the pigeons landing on her—Oswald chastised himself for that, he had innocently thought it would amuse her—must have haunted her psyche instead. He felt like dying because, apparently, his actions had attributed to her fright. He had let the champagne go to his head and wanted to show off; he would need to be more sensitive until this evil thing that plagued her mind was gone for good.

He stopped rocking her.

_What if this evil thing is not just a nightmare? What if it is a real thing and is pursuing her?_

He went over a list in his head. She had experienced a bad feeling the first time they could not find Maroni. He had shrugged it off, but she had been right. She had wanted to go with him tonight, feeling uneasy, and she had been right.

Somehow Cassandra had known he was in Gotham. Another feeling? She had come to his rescue when Maroni was holding a shard to his neck. Coincidence?

_She is convinced something is after her, watching and waiting. Is she right?_

He glanced at the window, thankful that the curtains were drawn.

_And what will I do if she is? _

Once he began to relax he ran his hands alongside her face and listened to make sure she was still breathing—illogical, he knew—but he had to do it to settle his own mind, and tucked the covers around Cassandra haphazardly before burrowing her and himself further into the pillows. He lay there holding her and falling into a fitful sleep, made more difficult because of the residual adrenaline and the brightness of the room. Oswald rested one of his arms over his eyes, hiding them inside the bend of his elbow.

_She is mine, evil lurking dark thing, and you cannot have her_.


	50. Chapter 49

Chapter 49

C.C. Haly and Norton Bros. Circus sat on the outskirts of Metropolis. They had left Gotham a couple of months earlier before traveling through Bludhaven to reach Gotham's sister city—her presence a reminder of the death they had recently left behind.

It had been one of their own. Lila. One of the better attractions and a source of entertainment for some of the men. She was a snake charmer in every sense of the word.

It had also been one of their own that had killed her—her own son—who now sat rotting away in Arkham Asylum.

They missed her, but were glad he was gone.

Jerome had given everyone the creeps. They especially did not like his laugh. It was always at macabre things or at inappropriate times.

They were glad to be rid of him, content in the knowledge that he would not see the outside of those concrete walls for as long as he lived. Secure in the belief he would never walk free.

What a joke it would be if he did.

Haly's Circus was behind tour schedule due to that unfortunate incident and the subsequent police investigation that had followed. A brief period of mourning to grieve for their friend and family member also claimed a few days out of their agenda.

Nathaniel Haly distributed Lila's belongings to the other circus performers, and what was not needed or wanted was given to charity. Her wagon was being used for storage.

They kept the snake.

It was mid-March now and the weather was bi-polar or being controlled by some emo kid. Most days the atmosphere could not decide if it wanted to be pleasantly warm or tease the inhabitants of Metropolis with chilled air, enough to create a cloud-cicle if one could get a stick up that high. There were rumors that someone actually could.

Tonight was warm. If a person or creature was inside the city limits, the thin veil of pollution that reflected the lights from the streetlamps and neon signs back into the city would prevent a citizen from seeing the stars and the moon. Haly's caravan was on the outskirts, its red-and-white striped tents set up in a grassy, green field. The circus family could see the celestial bodies without encumbrance.

It was pleasing.

It was soothing.

It calmed their frayed nerves and the performers where just beginning to get their balance back.

Haly was so relaxed that he did not notice the stealth visitor that crept through his canvas town up to the steps of his wagon.

"It's a pity that death tends to follow your caravan," it hissed. "There will be more to come—but by _our_ hands . . ." The creature giggled and corrected itself. "Or claws to be more specific."

Haly's breath caught in his throat and he nearly toppled over backwards in his rocking chair, grabbing the step to his right, the ones that led into his dwelling, to steady himself.

"Why are you here?" he questioned after a quick recovery. He was not as afraid of this visitor—or who sent it—as he should have been.

"We just wanted to let you know that we found her," it said. "Foolish fools—tried to hide her—as if we could not see. Hide her in plain sight—in Gotham. At first, we watched, not sure it was her—not until the recent explosion."

"Why are you telling me this? I had nothing to do with the breach of contract, and The Court knows that. That was her parent's doing . . . and then the circus fire. Which I also had nothing to do with, nor her disappearance after."

"We wanted to let you know, as a reminder—we always find them—just in case you ever slip and want to spirit the children away. As if you could ever save them from their destiny."

Haly shrugged. "It's no concern of mine," he stated. "But out of curiosity, why would you want her _now_. Isn't she a little too old? She needs training . . ."

"We have a specific purpose for her. Something that absolutely none of the others can accomplish." It giggled again, high-pitched and gleeful. Haly felt the hairs on his body stand up.

_Go away night bird_, he thought. _What manner of nightmare have these shadows dreamt up for her? Where is she? Can I reach her first?_

Sadly, he did not think so. Another one sacrificed in the name of the city. For the greater good.

_Yeah, keep telling yourself that, Nate_.

"So, what's next?" he asked to thin air. His visitor had already slipped away, heading for the Powers building in Gotham. The Court was eager for a report, so it moved swiftly across the ground and through the air, alternately using trees and electrical towers as jump-off bases for gliding.

On the rooftop of the Powers building, an airship was docked, ready to transport the creature and members of The Court above various landmarks within Gotham City. A meal had been prepared and was waiting for them in the dining room of the craft. Roast bird—one of their favorites.

It was, after all, a bird-eat-bird world.

The members gathered, taking their assigned seats and questioned the creature that stood before them, its eyes golden, its form dark brown—like the mahogany chairs in which they reclined. The scent of red wine, exotic spices, and prepared meat permeated the room.

"Well?" asked one of the members, her voice slightly muffled behind the mask she wore. "Tell us." She lifted the bottom of her mask in order to sip the merlot.

"Yes, tell us," they all agreed.

"He had no knowledge," it said. "Not by what I witnessed. He neither confirmed nor denied hiding the children."

"We have a good crop this year?" inquired another member. His hair was grey and he drummed his fingers on the table, keeping his other hand firmly around the handle of a cane.

"So it seems," it responded.

"Good. Good," he said. "We thank you for your service. A tray will be brought to your room before your slumber."

The creature was led from their sight, and for a moment all that was heard in the dining area was the clicking of silver utensils upon delicate china and the low hum of the airship's motor.

The youngest member was more interested in the dessert. Ignoring the buttered carrots and seasoned squash, she pushed them aside and reached across the table for the apple and apricot frittata. She had tried to take a sip of wine earlier, but was denied.

No one was going to keep her from the pastry.

She scooped up a piece using her hand and jumped down from her perch in the chair. She was really too short to sit at the table properly anyway, and she knew that sometimes she was not privy to every conversation. It was not because of the topic; it was because she asked too many questions. If she made herself scarce now, she would be overlooked and eavesdropping would be made easier. Of course, she would not be able to respond to what they were saying.

The promenade was adjacent to the dining room and she looked back over her shoulder, through the glass barrier towards her mother who was tearing a ribbon of meat off a bone that apparently had been overlooked during prep. Usually the chef tried to make sure the animal had been completely deboned. Choking hazard and not good for the tummy if swallowed, resulting in vomiting. But, honestly, sometimes the craving to rip the tendons from the bone with one's teeth was intoxicating.

The chef would not get into trouble this time. Her mother was having too much fun.

There were no doors between the dining area and the promenade. Might as well have been in the same room.

Only a few wooden panels separated her from the others, about three-feet high and decorated with carvings of predatory birds attacking its prey, courtesy of The Court in Italy. The crystal windows that were bolted to the wood partitions were a gift of The Court in Scandinavia. She sat on one of the cushioned booth seats—tapestries documenting their history (loomed by hand from the English Court) and pushed open the promenade window to feel a breeze. The soft hum of the airship's motor mixed with the twinkling lights of the city below was a tempting invitation to nap, which she resisted.

She lifted her mask to take a bite of the gooey frittata and considered removing the porcelain constraint all together, but she knew she would get fussed at if she did. For some reason, unbeknownst to her, that was a no-no. No one would tell her why.

_I mean, we all know each other—don't we_? She glanced back to the dining table. _Do we_?

She sighed heavily. It was frustrating being a kid.

She leaned too far out the window to watch the city moving slowly passed her. The airship seemed dangerously close to some of the buildings and she was sure if she reached out her hand, it would scrape the smooth steel of the shiny dwellings or perhaps grasp the horns of one of its guardian gargoyles.

She leaned back in, grinning and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Doing so caused her to lose hold of the pastry, sending it spiraling downwards to the rooftop below. A flock of pigeons that had made their home upon that roof quickly consumed it.

She pouted and closed the window, considered sneaking back in to grab another handful, and then dismissed the thought, knowing if they saw her—she might be banished from the room entirely. Instead she settled down on the floor leaning against the wood panel, inspecting the cut and curves of the hunt scene with her fingers.

"Here is her file," she heard her mother say. Her mother was the administrative assistant. She knew everything.

"Her parents died in the circus fire the night we were to take her. At the time, it was considered a loss for us that we were unable to acquire her then. However, because we did not, plans have actually worked out to our advantage. She will fulfill her family's obligation in more ways than one. Fate still knows what she is doing and Destiny is an astute sage."

The members murmured in agreement. The old man with the cane nodded.

"Yes," he said, "To refresh everyone's memory—the woman who is owed to us is from the Anders line. Anders and his brother, surname Gate, had been hired by the Wayne family to redesign parts of Gotham including erecting select bridges. Anders should have built one of the bridges into Kane County, but refused, siding with Wayne and Cobblepot, who you will remember was the steel magnate. This was detrimental to Gotham's growth. The bridge had to go and it was destroyed, killing Gate. Anders took his revenge by strangling Kane's adult son."

The members violently tapped the blunt end of their knives upon the table.

Now she knew what had caused those grooves.

"Kane, although not a moralistic man, had the means to make Gotham great. Kane and the Owls have always been on the same side since the beginning. That cannot be said of the Waynes or the Cobblepots. It is why one is parentless and one is penniless. Their lives are woven together, unwitting allies. It is time to cut that bond or take them out."

_What does that have to do with the woman_? thought the owlet. She was grateful someone asked that question.

"Her family had made a pact with The Court." This time the girl's mother spoke again. "In exchange for not wiping out Anders' line after his betrayal, The Court would choose one of the Anders' offspring, at any given time, and train them as an assassin. When Cassandra's mother learned what all that entailed, she reneged, and so did Cassandra's father—who had no clue of the contract. Cassandra's mom had neglected to mention that little caveat. Probably because she thought she would never be found. Cassandra's ancestors had tried to hide the Anders name by changing it to Anderson, and then through the years with the marriages and the subsequent changes to the wives' last names . . . None of their offspring seemed promising until we observed Cassandra."

"Excellent!" exclaimed a masked man. "So she will be the one to carry out the deed. How poetic. How apropos. It is like a Shakespearean tragedy. When do we get to see it play out?"

The old man spoke again.

"Not until I believe that Cobblepot is truly happy. Once he reaches that contentment, lets down his guard, believes that everything he ever wanted is safely his—then we will strike and rip it all away, and it does not end just there." He wheezed as he laughed and was sent into a coughing fit.

"It is quite cruel, what you have planned," said someone else. She was not lamenting the fact, only making a statement. One could hear the smile in her voice.

"Yes," replied the wise old owl, after recuperating from his fit, wiping spittle from his mouth with a silk handkerchief. "That is what will make it so enjoyable."

The sound started as a chortle, then built to a chuckle, and then to shrieking laughter as it rippled down and back and across the table of the self-appointed puppet masters.

The little owl was glad she was here. Glad she was in the airship and not the streets of Gotham. Glad she was one of the one's in charge—the power group—and not one of the mangy pheasants below—stuck to the streets—bred to be hunted—never allowed to fly and prey.

The family that preys together . . .

Soon after, the shoes of her mother appeared in her line of sight as well as another pastry piece. She looked up as her mother bent to her level and offered her the dessert.

"It's such a pretty night, mama. Did you see the lights of Gotham?"

"I did. Did you hear the conversation?"

"I did," she said, yawning. Her mother stood and patted the top of her daughter's head.

"Be sure to brush your fangs and wash your claws before you to bed, dear."

"I will mother," she said. Tonight she would dream of the hidden alleyways of Gotham. Of a woman named Cassandra and a man named Cobblepot.

She almost felt sorry for them. _Almost_.

She took another bite of pastry.

Some things are just too yummy not to eat.


	51. Chapter 50

Chapter 50

Cassandra woke with a start. Something about last night seemed familiar, like a lingering scent or a whisper of images, shuffling as if threaded through a malfunctioning 8mm projector—a picture or two and then on to another frame, out of sync and crooked. The images were golden and amber, fuzzy—like a peach, but the fragrance that poked at the memory in her brain was putrid, not sweet.

She sat there questioning what had flickered before her mind's eye, her head tilted, brows wrinkled as she absentmindedly glided her hands over the fitted silk sheet, the spot that earlier had been vacated by Oswald—the impression his head had made in the pillow still visible.

There was a smell of burnt flesh, an odor of which she was unfortunately familiar, and she panicked. It was not an olfactory hallucination. It was the real thing and all she could imagine was that Oswald was injured.

Scurrying out of bed, she ignored the silver tray and flowers placed on a cart beside the bed, and followed the rancid scent to where it was strongest—the bathroom. Oswald had recently had it repaired with a temporary tub and shower combo, but she saw no indication of what had caused the smell. Nothing at all. Whatever it was had been removed, but its unpleasant perfume remained.

She called Oswald from the phone in the bedroom, twisting the cord around her fingers and hand, and was tentatively reassured when she heard his voice.

"Oswald! Are you all right?" She leaned back too hard onto the corner of the bureau as she slumped in relief. _Ouch. That was going to leave a bruise_, she thought as she rubbed the underside of her thigh.

She could hear the grin in his voice and imagined his brows knitting together in confusion when he responded, "Yes, of course. Why would you think otherwise?"

"So you have no flesh burns? No crispy skin?" she asked. She heard the quiver in her speech and wondered if he heard it too. Quickly she grabbed her throat believing that would settle the shaking.

"Ah, I see. No, that was not me. I mean that was me in the room—with you, but that stench is not _my flesh_.I, uh, must have acclimated to the aroma and did not realize it still lingered. I apologize. I can imagine it was not a pleasant way for you to wake up."

"Well, I _have_ survived worse." When he did not answer, she asked another question. "Whose flesh is it?"

She heard his tongue click, and then a snort.

"It was _completely_ accidental," he said.

_Here we go._

"I was only trying to kill the rodents in the warehouse," he explained. "As you are full aware, the Russians are known for their graceful ballets, and rightfully so, but truly—have you ever _seen _them walk? Obviously, I am referring to the male of the species. Terrible klutzes. Just tripped and fell _right_ in the stream of fire." He clucked his tongue a few more times and snickered.

Cassandra sucked in her bottom lip through her teeth, appalled at the grin forming across her face. Oswald could be so entertaining and dangerously charming. "Amazing, that," she said. "All of them—just, down they went . . . _ka-plop, ka-plop, ka-plop_."

"_And ka-plop and ka-plop_ . . . all at the same time," he stated.

_Okay, so now I know there were five of them_, she thought. _Five blind mice. Not to mention_—_stupid._

"Incredibly visually-challenged too, it sounds like—not to notice each other as they fell . . ." she offered. "And not very smart."

"You are _so correct_!"

"So you do business with stupid, clumsy people . . ."

"I am an equal opportunity business man."

She chortled, and Oswald went on.

"In actuality, it seems like someone had decided to throw a _surprise _party for me—invited a few unexpected guests with tendencies toward, shall we call it—antisocial personalities. I had to use a big match to light the candles, so to speak." He neglected to tell her that they had piled the bodies of the dead men in a heap and doused them with the liquid flame. It had been a lovely night for a bonfire.

"So you needed the flamethrower after all." She placed one hand on her hip. She could actually hear him sucking on his inner cheeks, willing his mouth to stay closed. "Oswald . . ."

He interrupted her. "Why are you calling from the room phone? Have you not had breakfast yet?"

"What?" Cassandra wobbled her head and shrugged to no one as she glanced at the covered silver platters and bouquet of gardenias and daisies. The flowers reclined in a bulbous round blue vase, looking rather cheerful and there was an envelope leaning against them. Cassandra recognized Oswald's graceful handwriting.

"I see a note," she said.

"Oh, don't read that yet. Wait until I hang up."

"Okay," she chirped as she retrieved it and held it to her nose, inhaling his scent to rid herself of the other one, and then opened the flap to remove the message. It read:

"_Dearest,_

"_Please forgive my absence as you wake."_

Cassandra looked at the clock, it was noon-thirty.

"Cassandra?"

"_I look forward to the day that I can leisurely admire you as you come from that dream state into the light of day, able to stay by your side without threat of sudden departure."_

"Cassandra? You are not reading that note right now, are you?" She heard his bashful smile through the phone and imagined him blushing.

"Hmph uh," she hum-grunted, shaking her head. _Nope, nope, nope, yep_.

"Are you lying?" he asked. _Hey, he sounds like me._

"Uh huh." _Through my teeth_.

"_I am meeting with a colleague at present and will return by early evening. Please, I implore you, do not wander Gotham alone."_

Oswald sighed. "It is _embarrassing_, Cassandra. Please stop. I will never get used to this."

"_Until my return, I leave you with this: 'Take this kiss upon the brow! And, in parting from you now, thus much let me avow—you are not wrong, who deem that my days have been a dream.'_

—_Oswald_"

She came to the end of the letter and grinned dreamily.

"All right, darling, I'll stop."

She smelled the notecard again, holding Oswald's scent in her lungs before exhaling.

"Eat your breakfast," he gently ordered her. She wished he were here with her now. When he spoke to her in hushed tones like that, she tingled all over.

Cassandra's stomach growled and she lifted the polished lid to discover pancakes with maple syrup, link sausages, grits—_ohmygosh! He brought me GRITS!_ _Heaven knows it's better than oatmeal_—and biscuits with butter, honey, and gravy sides. Piping-hot coffee and chilled orange juice was also on the tray.

She was grateful that the scent of homemade Southern cooking was filling the room, expunging the subtle reek that threatened her gag reflex. If there was one thing she remembered clearly from her childhood before the farm, it was the excursions the circus took to the South—where the people were unabashedly friendly, the air was thick with the fragrance of blooming florae, the night sky twinkled with the collective winks of stars and lightning bugs, and the food was offered up as mouthwatering extensions of someone's soul, lovingly prepared and freely given.

She completely understood the term "comfort food". If she kept eating like this, she was going to develop a "comfort belly" with matching "comfort butt".

There was a noticeable absence of eggs and Cassandra silently chuckled. Extension of one's soul. She did not care that eggs were not on the menu—this looked scrumptious.

Lunch was always better when it was breakfast.

"This looks delicious. You brought me grits. Thank you. I can't wait to eat everything on this tray."

"Well, it would be wise _not _to eat what is under the smallest silver lid," he said. Cassandra could hear Gabe speaking in the background and Oswald answered him before addressing her again. "We have arrived at Conner's . . ."

"Conner's?" She lifted the lid to find a top-of-the-line smartphone. White with silver accents. She raised her eyebrows and nodded in approval, placing the lid to the side.

_That will be fun to play with._

"I'll explain later. I have to go. I'll see you this evening."

Cassandra clutched the linen napkin by its tail and drew it upward to allow the utensils to tumble out. "I can't wait. I miss you," she said as she turned her attention to the food.

"The sentiment is mutual," he responded. "Oh, and Cassandra?"

"Hmmmm?" She had already shoveled a forkful of pancake into her mouth.

"I needed the flamethrower after all," he said before hanging up. Her laugh nearly caused her to choke on the spongy food already in mid-journey down her throat.

The thrill of vindication tastes so good.


	52. Chapter 51

Chapter 51

Maroni could not wait to see the look on the little twerp's face. A nice surprise visit should do the trick, especially since he knew Oswald assumed he would not stop by after Gordon's suggestion for him to stay away from the club. Unfortunately for the little bird, that was not going to be the case. He was looking forward to dropping in on the stool-pigeon. Who was going to stop him?

Loeb had demanded that Gordan let Maroni and his men go with no questions asked and no charges filed. It seems as if a key piece of evidence was hidden under the dead broad that pointed to a serial killer of some sorts. Oh, and the dead cop? Maroni snickered. It had been chalked it up to self-defense, or some garbage like that. Even Butch was let out—so that should be fun to watch as well. Loeb even went as far as to threaten Gordon with traffic cop duties. That detective was becoming well-rounded. First, a stint as an Arkham security guard and now unfulfilled promises that he would be demoted to beat cop. It was beautiful.

Maroni inhaled deeply. Gotham was a lovely place and it was a gorgeous overcast day. Perfect day to intimidate a sniveling, conniving rat—although he did wonder if Carmine would show up again. Just to see the sheer terror on Penguin's face when he walked through the door of Oswald's would be worth it. Never mind that Gordon had said to stay away. Time was up and the sentinels at the club were gone. He had that on good knowledge. That was because more of the force was finding their way to his side of the gutter, where he planned to keep them.

Victor was not around when he arrived at the club. Probably skinning some ill-fated soul who looked at him the wrong way.

Maroni shivered. He really did not like that guy.

Butch was there however and the Don had the big man, who had suddenly broken into a sea of sweat, bring him and his men a round of drinks, on the house, of course. It was fun watching such a large, intimidating person relegate himself to a cowering clown, a quivering mess—not unlike a woman with the vapors.

Speaking of women, Maroni glanced around. The one he was interested in was nowhere to be seen.

"Where's the brunette with the attitude?" he asked Butch as the burly man set a full glass in front of him. The swizzle stick was a pirate's sword. Purple. Glowed in the dark.

"I'm not at liberty to say," Butch wanted to run and hide. His brain was firing electrical charges that made it difficult to think rationally, if indeed that were possible any longer.

Maroni raised his eyebrows. "Not at liberty to say? After all we've been through? Hell . . ." he reached over and playfully punched Butch on the arm. "You and me and these guys," he jerked his thumb over his shoulder. "We've even been in the clink together. Us against the coppers. We're like brothers." He held out his arms as if explaining a magic trick to someone not so easily convinced. "You're a good guy, Butch. Anytime you want to come to my side, let me know. Oswald doesn't appreciate you." Maroni's congenial face turned instantly to stone. "Now where is she?"

Butch rocked back and forth on his feet and looked at the floor.

"Are you looking for me?" Cassandra descended from the staircase and Maroni appreciated the way her hips swayed as she moved down from step to step. Butch took this moment to fade slowly into the shadows.

"Ah! And here she is, just the woman I was hoping to see," he said, standing and pulling out a chair.

"Oswald is not here. What do you want?"

"I want to talk to you. _Cassandra_—is it?" he responded, indicating that she should have a seat.

"About what?" she asked, not budging.

"Now, Cassie. Don't be rude."

"It's Cassandra, and I am not the one who appeared here uninvited," she told him.

"You are also not the one who was framed for a murder she did not commit. Although the ruse was clever, now have a seat. Please," he gestured again, no warmth in his face. "Wouldn't want anything to happen to _Oswald_, now would we?" Saying Penguin's name was like spitting out manure, but the veiled threat had worked. She moved to sit down.

"Butch, bring something for the lady," he ordered, as he held out the chair for Cassandra and pushed it underneath her. "You know," he said as he returned to his chair across from her. "I could really use a woman like you."

She grinned, but there was no amusement in her eyes. "Oh, I'm sure you use women like me every day." He chuckled at the intended slur, which for the record did not insult him.

"Jealous?" he inquired, already knowing the answer.

"You really just asked me that?"

Maroni grinned at her, his countenance devoid of humor. "What does he pay you, toots?" he asked, looking her up and down, slowly. _That should get her goat_. Her livid expression almost made him laugh aloud, but that would have diminished the intent of his leer.

"_Excuse me_?"

Maroni could see how Oswald liked this one. Fiery temper, full mouth, that hate in her eyes.

Butch placed a drink in front of Cassandra. One which she had no intention of consuming. He disappeared behind the bar and contemplated calling Oswald.

"For your _services_, what does he pay you?" _The look on her face was priceless. He loved a woman who knew when to blush, and this spicy one teetered between fury and embarrassment._

"For the weapons, _sweetheart_. I'm talking about your brain, not your body. But if you would like to discuss _that_ . . ." He ran a finger along her arm, which she promptly removed.

"The last man who touched me like that without permission wound up dead."

"By your own hands, no doubt?"

Cassandra frowned slightly, just enough for Maroni to see it. He leaned forward.

"You have a killer in you, darlin'. Why do you think you're with Penguin? Why do you think you create weapons instead of . . . oh, let's say life-saving medical devices?" He saw her flinch. Somewhere he had touched a nerve.

"I don't know anything about the medical profession," she remarked deadpan, no emotion in either voice or face. Maroni found that rather interesting.

"So you concede you know about killing then—that's how you know how to fashion a weapon. You like the idea of death." She tightened her jaw and her eyes narrowed. "No, not death," said Maroni. "Killing. You like the idea of killing because you are one—a killer, I mean."

"I am not."

"You are. You just can't see it."

"I think it's time for you to leave," she said, getting to her feet. He leaned back smiling and placed a finger on the side of his face, studying her. His wedding band caught the light and he wiggled it just to watch her twist her head to avoid the glint it caused.

"You know," he confided. "I fess up to my mistakes, and I made one with the idea of icing you. Water under the bridge, right, sweetheart? I think it would better benefit me to have you for myself."

"You're married." The irritation in her voice caused him to laugh.

"Hasn't stopped me before, but that's beside the fact . . ." He waved her insinuation away with his beefy hand and leaned upon the table. "What I mean is—why don't you come work for me?" Maroni took in her stunned expression and the sudden silence of their conversation. The only noise was the poor excuse for a singer caterwauling from the stage. _Jeez, at least get some decent music_.

Cassandra glared at him. He liked it.

"Oswald offers me something you cannot."

"Wanna bet?"

"You'd lose."

"So you're doin' him?" He enjoyed the uncomfortableness he was causing her. _My, what a pretty shade of red. At least now she has some color, what with all the white she wears._ He shrugged.

"I just didn't realize the little bastard had it in him. Thought he swung the other way. My bad. Please accept my apologies."

"For your information . . ." Cassandra started. Maroni stood and held up his hands.

"I know, I know—_you're not that kind of girl_," he mimicked the phrase as an offended female and rolled his eyes. "Listen, doll face, when you decide to come play for the winning team, let me know. Butch knows how to reach me, _don't you Butch_?" He yelled to man hiding in the dark and chuckled. Maroni leaned towards Cassandra as if they were besties.

"Let me tell you something, off the record, sweetheart—you are a hell of lot braver than that limp jellyfish quavering behind the bar. Just don't tell anyone I told you that. I have a reputation to uphold." He walked toward the door lamenting the fact that he would have terrify Penguin another day. Before he reached it, he abruptly turned to face his unwilling hostess, nearly knocking her over.

"Cassandra."

"What?"

"No, your name. Cassandra. Wasn't she some Greek muse or goddess or fortune-teller or something like that?"

Cassandra nodded. "Something like that. No one ever believed her predictions. They came true nonetheless."

"Oh, yeah? Predict something for me." He slung his coat over his arm, his minions standing close by in case he needed their assistance hoisting it onto his giant frame.

She snorted and looked away, then looked back at Maroni. "I do not see the future."

"Humor me. Guess. Let's see if it comes true. _Come on_. What's the harm? It will be fun."

"Okay," she grinned. "I think a woman will be your undoing."

Maroni laughed, it was a wistful, heartfelt laugh. His men laughed along with him. "Oh, honey . . ." he breathed. "That's the story of every man." Thus, this being his most excellent exit line, Maroni slipped out the door still laughing.

Cassandra was glad he was gone. She left word on Oswald's cellphone that the mobster had paid an unexpected visit, but had just left.

Maroni's remarks had gotten to her. It gnawed at her that she was prone to creating weapons, which is what she had been doing for the latter part of the day, but she understood it was for Oswald's defense. _Ignore Maroni._ It was of no concern to her to hack off an arm or stab out an eye if it meant saving his life. Why should that bother her? Maybe that was why her nightmares seemed to be on an increase—her conscience must be troubled. She brushed aside her thoughts with a shrug.

_I'm not thinking about this right now_.

It had been hours since she had eaten that lavishly prepared breakfast for lunch and she was starving. The club was not very busy tonight, so she relished the idea of having quite the pickings of readily prepared snacks in the kitchen. After such a heavy meal earlier, she craved something lighter and went to grab something from the restaurant's refrigerator. A loaded salad and a soda waited for her on the shelf and she grabbed them before making her way back upstairs via the stairwell in the cobwebby back part of Oswald's. No more elevator for her, thank you very much.

Because Cassandra had chosen this route, she did not see the reentry of Maroni and his lieutenants as they sauntered back into the club with Mrs. Kapelput clinging to the Don's arm, gazing up at him as if he were a superhero.


	53. Chapter 52

Chapter 52

_How did we end up here_? Cassandra asked herself as she patted Oswald's back and allowed him to cry into her neck. She did not flinch, not from the merciless tickle of his nose and tears on a very sensitive part of her body nor from what she had just done. Now was not the time for squirming, but she felt like screaming from not only the sensation, but from her own actions, and Oswald's—his actions too.

They were standing in the hallway outside Mrs. Kapelput's apartment and there was a familiar scent in the air. Someone opened a door and demanded to know who was cooking that foul-smelling food. Did not seem to care about the man sobbing in her arms.

_Compassionate neighbors_, she thought. _Maybe that's to our benefit that they mind their own business_.

_What have I done_? _What did we do_? She decided not to dwell on it for now. Her mind went blank, like paper without a word or a drop of paint or a smudge of charcoal. A blank screen. White as snow. White as white noise. She stood there and thought about nothing.

Surprising how easy it was to do that.

Oswald had been devastated. Maroni had reappeared like a wart and his presence at the club had startled Oswald, who thought he had already come and gone. Cassandra and Butch both swore that he had left. He believed Cassandra, but had his doubts about Butch. Butch had not even bothered to call him the first time the Don had shown up and did not call him when he made his reentrance.

"She was already here!" Butch had insisted, referring to Oswald's mother. There was a part of Oswald that did not believe him. Butch still could have phoned to warn him, and Oswald planned to rake him over the coals about it. Literally.

But what really destroyed Oswald however were not merely the words spoken to his mother by the Don, but Gertrud's reaction. That is what truly crushed him.

Maroni had called Oswald a monster, a psychopath, accused his mother of knowing the whole time that Oswald was a killer. She had collapsed and Oswald had tried to soothe her as Maroni smugly threw down some bills and strolled out of the club.

When Gertrud fainted, Oswald had Gabe take them both to her apartment, and then ordered that he go back and bring Cassandra to him. He did not want her staying there without him.

The neighbor who had insisted in knowing who was fixing such a rotten meal asked what Oswald's problem was, or more to the point: "What's up with the whiner?" said in a tone that made Leona Hensley seem compassionate.

"Bad tuna," Cassandra responded, which actually made Oswald laugh before resuming his silent sobbing. "Let's go inside," she murmured into his ear and he wordlessly nodded.

She led him to the love seat where he had sat moments before with his mother who had wanted to know exactly what it was that Oswald did.

What Oswald does is lie, and he lied to his mother.

He told her he was a nightclub owner and that was it.

But Maroni had been right all along. Gertrud knew about Oswald's . . . _other interests_, his demons, the things he had done—not just as an adult—but also as a child and teenager. She just refused to acknowledge them, because as everybody knows—if you ignore a problem, it will go away. Or was never really there in the first place.

Gertrud could break Oswald's heart further, by turning it around on him—convince _him_ that he had broken her heart, and that it was irreparable. The truth was—he kind of had. Maroni could have been her new meal ticket. Now that plan was spoiled.

She had meant it when she had told Oswald she was tired and retreated to her bedroom. She was tired of this life. She shut the door and locked it, effectively shutting Oswald out of her world for the next few hours.

Gertrud Kapelput knew how to tip her hand in order to rip her son apart and Cassandra hated her for it.

"She doesn't love me anymore!" Oswald exclaimed—had been exclaiming for most of the evening, leaning his full weight onto Cassandra as they sat on the torn cushions. Cassandra lied and said that she did, taming his hair and rubbing the side of his face.

"Remember how she defended you as a boy," she reminded him. It made her want to vomit, but she had to soothe her distraught fiancé. She would do anything for him—to protect him, and she had.

That made her want to vomit too.

He was shaking violently and Cassandra held him to her tightly, willing the spasms to ease. Tears reformed in her eyes. She had cried earlier with him and threatened to do it again.

_By golly, I'll kill that bitch myself_, she thought. She had been rocking Oswald, unaware that she had been doing so until she abruptly stopped.

_He was right_, she thought. _Maroni was right. I'm a killer. Gertrud was the monster in this scenario and I would slash her throat if it meant Oswald would finally be free from her abuse._ She had to control the bile that was forcing its way up from her gut. _This is crazy talk. I'm not a killer. Just a simple accomplice. That's all._ The wetness resurfaced in her eyes and the apartment looked like something viewed out of the bottom of an old-fashioned soda bottle.

She planted kisses upon Oswald's forehead as she renewed rocking him while he kept repeating how much his mother hated him. Her neck, the side of her face, her hair, and her blouse were wet from his tears.

Earlier they had been wet with blood now dried. The neighbor who had lovingly inquired about Oswald's health would not have seen it because she had been hugging Oswald to herself at the time. In that dimly lit hallway, it would have looked like dirt, or shadows.

When she had arrived, she had discovered Oswald dragging a body down the hallway.

"Please help me," he implored like a lost child. She did not hesitate in approaching him. Her mind was playing tricks on her. He was dragging a dead man. This was not reality.

Although it was.

"Oswald, what have you done?" He let go of the man's leg and it hit the floor with a heavy thud. Oswald's bottom lip trembled. "Maroni sent him. He works for Maroni."

"Did he attack you?" Cassandra asked, glancing up and down the hall.

Oswald shook his head. "He brought flowers."

When Cassandra exhaled, it sounded more like a high-pitched whistle. "Oswald!" She grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him. "Do you realize what you have done? You have literally killed the messenger! You are now a walking cliché! Oh my G—"

His eyes focused and his voice was sharp. "Keep your voice down," he demanded, then in softer tones. "I cannot drag him the whole way by myself." Cassandra walked away from him.

"_Where are you going_?" he fiercely whispered. Anger and desperation was in his voice. She then walked towards him and past him, as if searching for something. When she found it, she stopped and opened a chute in the wall and listened. When she walked back to Oswald, she glared at him before grabbing one of the man's legs.

"Well, what are you waiting on?" she asked. "I don't know if he will fit, but there is only one way to find out."

"The incinerator, of course! That's brilliant, darling," he smiled at her as he lifted the other leg. His eyes were bloodshot.

"Don't talk to me," she said. "One word and I am liable to run down this hallway and out the front door to where I can breathe." She watched the trail of blood continue to smear and wondered how to clean it from the threadbare carpet.

It was like she was watching herself on the tellie. She was in a sitcom and she was playing the role of a murderous, but smart and feisty sidekick who spouted occasional witty remarks that were always followed by a pause and a laugh track, before cut to a commercial that cheerfully reminded viewers to "Drink your Ovaltine!"

She was starring in a Quentin Tarantino movie where the blood trail would be lyrically and visually paired with a song so perfect, there would be no other choice but for the story to have a satisfying ending. Cassandra noted they were minus the badass soundtrack, which meant the ending was going to be disastrous. Someone was playing polka music from another apartment. Thing is, Tarantino could make that seem cool.

_Thing is_, the story had _already_ ended disastrously for one man, and for his family.

"His family," Cassandra muttered.

"What?" asked Oswald as he broke the man's arm so that he would fit without getting stuck on his journey to the oven. They needed to get him down the chute before he started to turn rigid. The bones splintered and Cassandra had to clench her jaw, which tingled with the plea to throw up.

"You owe his family," she said. Oswald removed the dead man's wallet and watch before dislocating the man's shoulders.

"Maybe we should have dismembered him," Oswald remarked as the body more easily resembled a ragdoll and effortlessly slid down the corridor out of their sight. "We need to make sure he made it to the furnace. What were you saying, my love?"

"You owe his family," she repeated. Oswald's eyes swelled up with tears. "No, no I don't. Maroni poisoned my mother's mind. Turned her against me. Anyone one on his side is owed _nothing _from me because they have _taken_ from me!" He broke and the waterworks that tried to start earlier, let loose in a gush now and he began a slow collapse, wincing as his leg reminded him it was not well.

He grabbed his knee and she caught him, turning him so that his back was against the wall. It was easier for her to hold him this way. His muscles and frame were dense, making him heavier than he looked. Thankfully, he helped her to support him; otherwise, they both would have ended up a heap on the floor.

"They all deserve to die!" he cried out.

"Shhhh," Cassandra hushed him. "Remember—keep your voice down."

That's when the smell hit and the first tenant started complaining.

Now, inside the apartment, Cassandra held him fast as the evening trudged on.

"I would still feel better if we checked on the body," he said, once he stopped shaking.

"I'll go." Cassandra stood and looked at her reflection in the mirror. She could not go looking like that. She looked at Oswald's jacket. It too was stained with fresh blood.

"You won't come back. You'll reject me too."

Cassandra's blood flared to boiling again and she entertained thoughts of strangling Gertrud. It's her fault Oswald was so . . . what? Twisted? Rage-filled? Broken? Afraid? Dangerous?

She looked down at him. The man has to take responsibility for himself. But when? Would he ever? Cassandra sunk back onto the couch and gazed at him. His face was puffy, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

"No, Oswald. I told you I would not leave you. I will not leave you still." She could actually feel the relief flood through his body as he encircled her with his arms.

Arms with enough strength to break a man's bones.

_What have I gotten myself into, and why can't I leave him? I cannot live without him_. She stifled a sob when she realized the awful truth: _I _can _live without him. I just do not want to._

_I won't. _She sighed and tried to hold back her tears. She failed. _So this is who I am_. The sobs escaped her body and Oswald began rocking _her_.

_This man will surely be the death of me, _she thought as she felt herself being gently pulled forward. Oswald was leaning back with her resting upon his chest, caressing her hair and holding her firmly against him. Every few seconds, his lips lightly grazed her face.

_I will fight death and devils, man and beast to keep him and myself alive_, she swore. _Let them try to take him from me. It will be the last thing they do._ With that thought swirling her head, she fell asleep.


	54. Chapter 53

Chapter 53

Oswald did not dare move.

_If I move, I will wake her and she may think this has all been a dream—a nightmare remembered—and when she realizes that in fact it is not . . ._

Oh, but how his back ached.

He eyed the fluffy pillow just out of his reach on the pink velveteen chair and stretched his right arm as slowly and as far as he could, trying to grab for it.

Oswald had tried several times, but it was of no use. There was still a sizeable gap between his fingertips and the fringe on the pillow, so he sighed in frustration and lowered his arm.

He heard Cassandra's stomach gurgle and he grinned. He had continued to rub her back and murmur sweetly to her as she slept, hoping it would keep her demons at bay—that she would not have an episode. So far, she had not even twitched.

She had reassured him she would not leave him, so why do these doubtful monsters still tap at his mind?

He snorted. _I tell her to kill the phantom in her dreams, but I cannot slay the fiends in my own head._

Absentmindedly, he stroked her hair. He thought of all those times when he would have given anything to tangle his fingers in these long, chocolaty curls that smelled like a syrupy sweet flower. That obsession had unnerved him. Since when had he ever desired a woman so fiercely?

He let the scent overtake him now as he submerged his nose in the silky locks and inhaled deeply.

_How did I get here_? Oswald mused, allowing a fleeting moment of contentment to wash over his soul like warm bathwater.

As he held her, he could not help but think of a song from one of his mother's favorite musicals.

_Mother. _

He remembered that, as a child, he would curl up beside her and watch the Technicolor family sing their way across the snowy mountains. One song stood out in particular for him at this moment, the one where the blonde woman sung about how somewhere in her youth she must have done _something_ good—the words that had made the biggest impression on him: "For here you are . . . loving me, whether or not you should."

_You really should not, Cassandra. But I am eternally grateful that you do. _

_Only, how long would her affections last? If my own mother . . ._

Oswald pushed that dark thought aside. He hated it when his mind turned to paranoia.

Cassandra had helped him hide—possibly dispose of (cross fingers)—a body. Only a true soul mate would do that. The means had even been _her _brainchild—she had chosen _fire _as the preferred method of elimination.

It made Oswald want to laugh. _Of course_ she had.

They were destined to be together—no, more than that—they had freely latched on to each other—and would have, with or without any help from mythological fate.

Then he thought of his mom's rejection again.

He thought of the body being discovered if it had not already been thoroughly cremated.

He thought of all the feces he had been forced to wade through all his life as he neared the pinnacle. He would soon rise above them all.

What could go wrong?

Oswald took a deep breath and closed his eyes, rubbing his forehead in a subconscious effort to massage away his worry.

He did not want to think anymore.

Tomorrow the war begins, or rather today. It must be early morning, maybe four or five o'clock, but it was as dark outside as if it were midnight. The witching hour. He glanced at the cuckoo clock. It was 4:30. He silently yawned and resisted an urge to stretch like a cat. Oswald concentrated instead on the feel of Cassandra's form on top of him, the sound of her breathing, and how Maroni will choke on his tortellini when Conner shows up at the bar slash restaurant slash drug house.

The profiles of the mob families, their lieutenants, and every person who had ever berated him danced across his mind's eye.

They are all buffoons. Falcone. Maroni. Fish (wherever she was). Loeb.

_What fools these mortals be_ . . .

_And here am I. Playing you all upon my stage_. _Your houses will destroy each other_. He could not wait to watch the media jump on their destruction like vultures to a carcass. Journalists were so easy to feed—#WeEatYourSoul.

He will watch the chaos he created unfold below—in the streets of Gotham—while he sits on high, separate and in control, towering over everyone else—on a golden throne, where he rightfully belongs.

_Although, right now, I would settle for my bed_. His neck cramped. _I have to move_.

Slowly he twisted himself toward the back of the couch and carefully deposited Cassandra onto her side while he slid out from under her. He slithered one arm underneath her—his other arm still around her shoulders—to anchor her and drag her towards him. Doing so allowed her to rest fully upon her back, one of her legs dangling halfway off the couch. He stood and straightened his weary body to stretch, reaching for the heavens.

He also had to use the bathroom.

The fluorescent light in the tiny room was not flattering, but it did throw a spotlight on the bloodstains decorating his jacket, a portion of his vest, and definitely his white shirt.

He would have to change. Mother must not see him like this.

_But do I redress or change to pajamas? Or a tee shirt and boxers? And what about Cassandra?_ He splashed some cold water on his face and stood in the bathroom doorway with a towel considering her as he blotted away the droplets.

It was obvious that she had been involved in a questionable caper. The crimson blotches stood in stark contrast to her pearly white attire. A change of garb was in order. In the meantime, he grabbed a scarf and covered himself so that the blood on his clothes was not visible. Time to visit the basement. He had to be sure the body had been destroyed.

Tiptoeing to the kitchen as best he could, he removed a black trash bag from under the sink. When he turned, Cassandra was staring at him from the doorway.

"What are you doing?" she asked quietly.

"I have to be sure," he shrugged, his voice going up an octave. He noticed her looking at the bag. "It's for the bones," he whispered. Her eyelids fluttered as if she had gotten dust in them, which in this home was entirely possible.

He knew dust had nothing to do with it and he tried to settle his blood pressure as his heartbeat increased. His words just always seemed to come out too blunt. How else was he to explain it?

"I'm going with you," she said, her hip jutting out.

He softly laughed and gestured to her clothing. "Not like that."

She looked down at herself. "Oh," she responded, as if she really did not care. "How silly of me. Not like this." Her hand grasped the front of her blouse as she studied dark red against snowy white. "Of course not. What was I thinking?"

Oswald frowned. She was behaving as if she was not fully awake. Overtired. Needed more sleep. Much like himself. Rest would have to come after he checked the incinerator. Otherwise, sleep would escape him.

Or perhaps it was just her insecurity showing.

Regardless, he wanted to be plenty rested for the day's coming events. It was going to prove to be spectacular, and he wanted a seat in the front row with Cassandra beside him.

She grabbed the nearest coat from the coat tree and wrapped it around herself, tying the belt instead of looping it through the buckle.

"I'm going with you," she repeated, strength returning to her voice. He offered her his arm and a sad, uncertain grin as they stepped across the threshold onto the red stain in front of the door. Oswald did not have to look at Cassandra to know she had just slumped.

"What do we do about this?" she asked as they both stared down at the floor.

"Bleach," he said. "Or . . ." He released her arm and removed his pocketknife, inserting it through the carpet and pulling upwards. The material ripped easily and Cassandra reached down to insert her finger into the hole and tugged. It was rather flimsy, barely a carpet at all—more like a rust-colored linen napkin, covering the floor just enough to muffle the taps of heels and the thud of boots upon wood.

They had to work slowly to not make such a loud noise as the material ripped, and by the time they were done, a lovely oak floor had been revealed. Popping back inside the apartment, Oswald retrieved a mixture of bleach and water and a mop. Cassandra cleaned up the leftover stains while Oswald rolled up the thin carpeting and placed it under his arm. It hanged there limply.

"We will burn this too," he stated, taking her hand and leading her down the stairs after placing the cleaning supplies back inside the door.

As they descended, the putrid odor that had lingered in and around the building got stronger. It was especially offensive once they walked into the heat of the basement where the incinerator stood like a displeased fire deity.

Oswald picked up a pair of discarded worker's gloves lying nearby and opened the squeaky iron door to the incinerator. The heat blew back their hair from their faces, which felt like burning leather, or a facial peel gone wrong. They were both reassured to discover that the deliveryman had indeed transformed into ashes, leaving his charred bones and acrid smell behind as a present. Since the incinerator ran on a night schedule and was no longer burning, Oswald started to remove the bones with a nearby shovel and place them in the bag, which Cassandra held open. The skull was too hot and burned a hole in the plastic, falling to the ground and releasing the rest of the skeleton.

"Splendid," remarked Oswald.

Cassandra chewed on her lip. "I have an idea. May I see your knife?" He handed it to her and she cut a square piece of fabric from the worn carpeting and placed the remains in there, tying the opposite corners together to form a hobo bag. Oswald nodded in approval and she handed him back his knife. He placed the remainder of the carpet into the incinerator and stoked the coals. They caught, and low flames worked themselves through the carpet like slow-moving lava until evidence of the material was gone.

"Hey! What are you kids doing in here!" yelled a grime-covered man in overalls, a rare city-dwelling chawbacon. His white hair stood on end—a coif of which Einstein would have been proud. Oswald recognized him as the superintendent of the building, and quickly pulled Cassandra into a passionate embrace.

"_What do you think_?" he spat, staring down the man who now frowned at him.

"Weird place to get romantic. You two in some kind of cult?" The couple shook their heads and Oswald added an eye-roll. It was his speciality.

"You know the story of Romeo and Juliet?" Cassandra urged the intruder, who nodded. "You're the Friar in this scenario."

"Is that the fella who helped the couple?" She nodded. "Can't see what's in it for me," he said, rubbing his chin.

_I will let you live_, Oswald thought.

"Besides," the man continued. "They died anyway." The man looked the couple up and down, then pointed to Cassandra's hand. "What's in the bag?"

"Picnic," she nonchalantly responded, trying again. "And if you are _real good_ and don't say anything about our rendezvous, I just _might_ be tempted to bring you a piece of homemade pie." His eyes lit up and he grabbed the blue jean shoulder straps of his outfit, his skepticism regarding their idea of an amorous encounter quickly forgotten.

_To each his own_, the man decided. He had not had homemade pie since he was a boy. "Flaky upper crust?" he asked her.

"Made with real butter." She offered him a radiant smile.

"Well, now. You've got yourself a deal!" He beamed at her and tipped an invisible hat in her direction before scowling at Oswald and turning to tramp through the exit in a huff, muttering to himself the whole way.

Oswald still had his tight grip on Cassandra and had no intention of letting her go.

Not now, not ever.


	55. Chapter 54

Chapter 54

What to do about the bloody garments. It was more of a statement than a question.

Oswald pondered this dilemma. He owned no washing machine (there was not room in the apartment anyway) and the ones offered by management had not worked in fifteen years. He also was not sure that hauling them to the lounge to be cleaned would be a good idea, although maybe he should transport Cassandra back there to get washed up. No, he did not like that idea _at all_. He wanted her here with him, and since he could not leave his mother . . .

Taking the clothes to a Laundromat or dry-cleaners was not an option. The perky, pig-nosed girl at the cleaners would ask too many questions about the stains because she was such a _good employee_ who _cared enough_ to make sure the offending blotches _were treated correctly_ in order to remove them without _ruining the material_. He could not fault her there, but then (insert irritated sigh here) she would try to hand him a lollipop. How many times did he have to politely smile at the cerebrally-challenged teenager and remind her he preferred gum, before she went back to twirling her hair and reading her romance novel?

He could tell what her favorite pages were by the number of creases in the corners and the way the book laid when she placed it to the side. On more than one occasion, Oswald had considered stealing the trashy novel and reading those pages for himself, his curiosity getting the better of him. He hated to admit it, but maybe it would offer some tips on what women liked and maybe he could try them on Cassandra when the time came. Of course, he also realized that not all women would like the same thing. She may find some of the ideas objectionable. He just wanted to be prepared.

He could not take the clothes to the Laundromat. That place harbored too many sets of beady, prying eyes. Not to mention thieves. All he needed was for some opportunist to steal his bloodied jacket or for some Chatty Cathy to inquire about Cassandra's stained blouse. No, too many desperate people, ready to rob and blackmail. Who could blame them? He would do the same (actually had) if the need arose, but if he ever found out who took his bow tie, that person will not require its services anymore because Oswald will remove that scoundrel's head. It had been real China silk too. Stolen from the highest-level visiting dignitary from Beijing. It had gotten mixed in with the regular laundry and he had removed it from the pile, only turning his head for a moment. It only takes a moment_—_is that not how the saying goes?

Oswald had never gone back to The Mat— which is how it is referred by the local neighborhood riff-raff. It was all strictly dry cleaning for him ever since he started working for Falcone. He was grateful the mom-and-pop establishment also offered a fluff-and-fold service for the clothing that did not need to be dry washed.

_Once I take over, I will not wash my bloodied clothes. I will simply burn them—no, Cassandra can do that—and I will purchase replacements._

He was aware of the fact that the blood on Cassandra's blouse had soaked straight through and was probably sticking to her skin. He knew that was an uncomfortable feeling—initially itchy—then like pulling a layer of glue off one's flesh when peeling back the sullied material.

Oswald drew a bath, his mother still locked in her room, and added bubbles.

_Cassandra will like that_, he thought, his stomach feeling full of bubbles too. He was still nervous at the prospect of her walking out on him, or her affections for him altering—not for the better.

He put the lid down on the toilet and sat down, leaning forward with his elbows on his thighs and ran his hands through his hair. The sound of the water cascading was soothing and he rested his head in both his hands, ready to fall asleep. They may both get in four or five hours of rest before needing to be at the club.

The bathroom was filling with steam, but he kept the door shut to keep the area warm for her. She had not said much on the way back up to the apartment and he had caught her feet in his hands when they both settled on the love seat. He had been afraid to say anything at all lest he say something that might upset her.

"What are you doing?" she grinned at him, eyelids heavy from weariness. He had just grinned back, said not a word, and removed her shoes proceeding to give her a foot massage. To watch her body relax as she tipped her head back and let out a breathy moan was exquisite.

_I bet _this_ is not in any of those dirty novels_, thought Oswald. _And it's only her feet I am touching_. _Waugh, waugh, waugh . . ._

He did not deserve her, although he totally did.

Rummaging in the bathroom's nic-nack drawer, he found matches and three tea candles. He lit them, surveyed them, frowned, and then blew them out. _I should let Cassandra light them_, he thought. _She probably needs to burn something. _Then he remembered she already had and grimaced. Maybe candles are not such a good idea right now. He chastised himself as he splashed them with water to make sure the wick was doused completely before returning them to the drawer. He tried to rid the room of the burning sulfur aroma by fanning the air with his hands.

The water in the porcelain tub was at an acceptable level, so he shut off the valves and went into the sitting room to retrieve Cassandra. She looked as if she was dozing and Oswald stood there not knowing whether to wake her or let her continue sleeping.

"Oswald?" Cassandra raised her head to look at him. He sighed softly in relief, glad that there was one less decision he had to make, and held out his hand. It did his heart good to realize that she did not hesitate to take it. "Is something burning?" she asked as they neared the bathroom. He watched her face as her own words hit her. "Ugh," she muttered.

He had not intended to speak. "I had anticipated candles, but in light of the situation . . ." He stopped talking, not sure what else to say.

"A bubble bath! Oh, I just adore claw-foot tubs," she said. This pleased him immensely. "Thank you, Oswald." She caressed his face and without letting go of his hand, stepped fully clothed into the tub. She looked back at him with a sparkle in her eyes. "Well, how else are we to get the stains out?"

"Well, I . . . uh," he blinked several times and pursed his mouth, pulling his head back before giving it a shake to clear it.

This was unexpected, which was stupid of him because when it came to getting physical, he should have learned by now that with Cassandra—he should expect anything, everything . . .

Yeah, he should have stolen that book.

"I was going to burn them," he sputtered. Cassandra's face fell. Dammit. He should have kept his mouth shut. He liked her idea more anyway. "But this is a better idea!" He could tell she was not convinced. "It is. _It truly is_. I would have considered myself a rake if I had suggested it. I would not want you to consider me one too. May I join you?"

Her tired eyes smiled at him. "Of course," she said softly.

He slipped out of his shoes, using the toe-heel method to remove them and for a moment forgot that he was in his boyhood home with his mother in the next room.

The water was hot, hotter than what he was used to, and he was grateful he had maintained the foresight to use the john earlier because that prickly wave that always teased the bladder had worked its way through his body as soon as he had submerged his feet.

Cassandra took a step toward him taking his other hand in hers and planted a playful kiss on his lips, nose to nose. Her movement caused a soft whoosh as the water rippled and a small current glided around their calves. Oswald felt the hem of his pants flare and shift, before returning to tickle him on the backs of his legs.

"Hi," she said, pulling back and looking up at him.

"Hi," he responded, smiling and leaned down to kiss her in return, needing no encouragement as his lips to traveled to her cheek and forehead_s-l-o-w-l-y_ before returning to her mouth, making her wait for his tongue. When he could no longer stand it, he embraced her and continued his travels downward to her neck. Oswald grinned when he felt her bunch the fabric of his jacket into her fists and heard her yelp.

Then he remembered they were not alone.

"Mother," he muttered. He heard Cassandra's breath catch in her throat as her body jerked.

"_What?_" she asked in a panic and turned to look over her shoulder.

"No," he chuckled, "She's still in the other room. It's just . . . with her here . . . how she treated me . . . if I do one more thing to disappoint her . . . I cannot risk . . ."

"I know . . ." She hugged him, sliding her arms under his and rubbing her hands up and down his back between his shoulder blades. "It's okay."

"_I cannot risk_ getting anything in these pockets wet so . . ." He straightened up and proceeded to remove items from the compartments in his three-piece suit and place them on the nearest sturdy object. "I mean, Mother has told me a _million_ times: '_Oswald, make sure this pocket watch_. . ." he held it up and dangled it beside his face, pointing to it ". . _. is out of your pocket before you get into a tub fully dressed_.' You would think I would know by now." Then offhandedly: "I feel like I should order us tea."

His mimicking got the response that he wanted—Cassandra laughed. "That . . . sounds like a _great _idea," she stammered. Oswald enjoyed the befuddled, bright look in her eyes and how her face had lit up when she realized he was not leaving her.

"Next time, then? When it's just the two of us?" he asked, grinning down at her. "We shall be served the finest tea; demand an army of candles; and bask, perhaps, in some smooth jazz?" She nodded. He continued softly, lowering the two of them into the water. "Until then, I am content with tap water . . ." He placed a kiss on her cheek. "A lovely, but cracked light fixture . . ." Now for the other cheek. ". . . and the soothing sound of your voice." A kiss to the lips before pulling back to gaze at her.

She laughed lightly. He leered at her, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, you're good," she murmured.

"But I mean it," he said earnestly, his face suddenly flooded with innocence again. It was true. He meant it. Did she _really _not know _that_?

"I know you do," she breathed into his mouth, before commencing the snogging of him. Her response had reassured Oswald that he in fact did not need—and here is where he winced as he used a double negative—_he did not need no stinking books_!


	56. Chapter 55

Chapter 55

"Cassandra?"

She purred at Oswald in response. She was too busy sucking on his neck to form words.

_Priorities_.

"This is most enjoyable . . ." he continued.

Cassandra could hear a "but" in there. She leaned back to look at the man and he seemed flushed, but not by passion.

". . . and I do not want to unhand you, but—_hot_! I am hot!"

_Damn straight_, she thought.

"I've got to get out of these clothes!" he insisted, struggling with the vest.

_Finally_!

Cassandra barely had time to assist undoing the buttons on his silk-lined vest or help him remove his thick jacket when he slung them on the tile floor with a clank—courtesy of the brass buttons. He hung his head back and sighed in relief before moving in to claim her again. "Now where were we?"

She chuckled as he moved closer to her. She always found him so alluring, especially in that white shirt with the top few buttons undone. It made her want to rip it right off him. This time, however, there was the problem of the crimson Rorschach blotches glaring back at her from the front.

_Tell me, Cassandra—what do you see_?

As Oswald moved, the water lapped at the bloodstains on his shirt releasing the color until it tinged the bubbles that playfully surrounded him. Cassandra frowned and gazed down at her blouse and, in doing so, realized that she sat in a crescent moon of sickly pink foam. Her stomach lurched.

Oswald caressed her arm and she looked back up at him, grasping his hand and meeting his quizzical gaze. He stopped advancing when he saw the look on her face and glanced down to see what had caused her sudden change in mood. They both watched the floating islands of tainted bubbles meet and merge.

Oswald hastily glanced up at her and grabbed the soap.

"I can wash it out!" he insisted, hiding the pink bubbles underneath the surface of the water before proceeding to lather the front of her blouse. Cassandra would have enjoyed the sudden attention he was giving her chest if it had not been for the situation at hand. The bar of soap bloodied up instead of washing her clean.

_Out, out damn spot_!

"I'm sorry, Oswald," Cassandra mumbled as Oswald submerged the soap underneath the water at the same time she gracelessly lumbered out of the tub to the toilet, lifting the lid and effectively throwing up dinner. It was not as tasty coming up as it had been going down.

The tile was cool and hard on her knees sending a chill through her body, which only intensified each retch-induced shudder. Oswald had immediately climbed out of the tub and she could feel him leaning over her in a panic.

"_I-I-I will inquire about his family_," he announced, referring to the man they had just caused to disappear. He held her hair away from her face. "I will make sure they are not in need of anything. It will be okay. _You'll see_ . . ."He tried to convince her, his voice etching ever higher. "It will all work out to a satisfactory end." He settled beside her with his bad leg stretched at an awkward angle, still holding her hair.

"No, you don't have to . . . not if you really believe he had anything to do with . . ." Cassandra could not finish her sentence as bits of digested salad came up to say 'hi'.

_This. Is. Embarrassing_.

"I wish you didn't have to see me like this," she managed to sputter. He shushed her and rubbed her back.

"I'm going to marry you. I'm _supposed_ to see you like this." She gasped a few times and clenched her jaw, demanding that the bile stay put. She lost the struggle and heaved again. Her eyes felt swollen and she reached out without lifting her head, fumbling for some toilet paper. Oswald handed her a handful before getting up to dampen a washcloth and grab two dry towels. He draped her with one and resumed his grasp on her hair.

Cassandra felt guilty. Eros had quickly transformed to vomitus.

"I'm so sorry. I know I initiated . . ." There was another foul gag and Cassandra retasted the salad dressing. The soda that accompanied it added a nice disgusting sweet taste and burned the back of her throat. Not that the bile wasn't doing enough of that already.

"Stop apologizing," he insisted. "This is my fault."

Cassandra reached out again and he placed the washcloth in her hand. She wiped her mouth and sat up. "No, no it isn't. I could have left," she tried to steady her breathing which was coming in gasps, and she inhaled deeply to quieten her nerves. "I stayed. I chose to help you. If I had not _wanted to help you_, I would have left." She folded the cloth and wiped her face with the unsullied side.

"I think your conscience is telling you otherwise," he softly whispered. She did not know how to respond to that statement.

When she did not answer, he let go of her hair and looked away, leaning his back against the bowl and arranging the towel over his shoulders. He resembled a sad, lost puppy. A spasm shot through his leg and he grabbed at it, wincing. Cassandra felt a flare of anger in her veins.

"I'll kill whoever did that to you." Oswald's head jerked up. He had only told her he was in an altercation. He had never mentioned with whom.

"Fish did this."

"Well, then, I will just kill _her_ too."

He chuckled. "You are defending my honor?"

"Yes," she grinned back at him and she saw him blush, then knit his brows together.

"What do you mean 'too'?" he asked. "You said, 'I will just kill _her_ too.' Do you have designs on killing someone else? I can help with that, you know," he teased. "Is it indeed _I _who has created a monster?" he pondered, referring to the accusation Maroni had hurled at his mother earlier in the evening.

Cassandra realized her faux pas (_yeah, I wanna off your mom_) and stuttered an answer. "I just meant after killing the delivery man—"

"You did not do that—_I did_." He looked to his hands resting in his lap and twiddled his fingers before peeling away the tips of his weak nails, not minding were they fell.

"I got sick because Maroni's words haunt me," she said. "He said I had a killer in me. Funny, I did not seem to scare _him_."

Oswald looked her in the eyes. "That is because he did not believe his own words. He is mad because I keep besting him at every turn. Asinine man will never get it through his Neanderthal skull that I am ALWAYS one step ahead. As for you, my enticing flower—_You_. Are. _Not_. A. _Killer_."

Cassandra rested her forehead on her arm. She was so tired. Oswald stood and above her, she heard a rustle and felt a slight breeze. Looking up, she was surprised to find him undressing.

"What are you doing?" she asked. _Surely, he is not feeling frisky after witnessing me vomiting up every single piece of lettuce I have ever eaten in my whole life. Ever_.

"Getting out of these wet clothes; you should too," he told her. "I'll help you in a minute." He released the belt on his pants and undid the zipper then looked back to Cassandra who hid her face in the crook of her arm. She thought he did not want her to see him nude and, in fact, he paused, not removing his pants—in fact, she heard him zipping back up—but instead approached her.

"Can you stand?" Oswald asked her. She nodded and he helped her to her feet. "How do you feel?"

"Tired and cold and woozy."

"Turn around," he whispered. She did and he slowly removed the towel from her shoulders, looping it over his arm like a waiter, and unloosed the clasps to her blouse before kissing the back of her neck and embracing her from behind. He held her gently as to not put pressure on her stomach.

"Arms up," he ordered gently, moving his hands to her waist. She obeyed and the chilled, wet fabric tickled its way off her body and joined Oswald's shirt, jacket, and vest in the corner.

He removed the towel from his arm and turned it so that the drier part touched the skin on her shoulders. Cassandra shivered. It was not from the cold.

She felt his fingers find the button and zipper on her skirt, and soon that too was lying in the corner, but not before he had slowly worked the offending material off her. The front of his head had leaned against the back of hers as he found the button and zipper on her skirt and slowly unzipped her out of the wet clothes. Cassandra did not know that his eyes had been closed as he enjoyed the sensation of undressing her, before he wrapped the towel around her again.

"I'll be right back," he said, stepping out of the room, returning a couple of minutes later with one of his shirts. He was still bare chested and wearing the sodden black slacks.

"Shall I help you out of your pants?" Cassandra asked him. She could not help but smirk.

He grinned and said nothing, shaking his head, then turned, intending to give her privacy while she slipped on his shirt.

"Oswald?" He stopped and slowly turned to look at her. "Is it because of your leg?" His face went hard. "I'm going to marry you," she said, using his own words. "I am supposed to see you . . ." she stretched out her upturned hand to his leg. ". . . like this." He blinked rapidly and turned again, walking out of the room and closing the door.

A few minutes later, after she emptied the tub and rid herself of the wet underwear (_yes, all of it_), she heard him quietly call out for her from another room. She quickly finger-brushed her mouth with toothpaste and swished some mouthwash around before spitting it out quite unladylike in the sink.

She found him sitting on his bed in a black undershirt and black boxer briefs, his right leg covered by the sheets and a quilt. He watched her face as if studying the last living human being on the planet. She could see him hesitate, fiddling with the corners of the cover.

"You don't have to do this . . ." she started. That remark only egged him on.

He threw back the covers and Cassandra had to make a conscious decision to keep her face stoic, but her eyes belied her—tearing up—and Oswald saw it, covering his leg again.

"There is no need to pity me."

"Well, I do whether you want me to or not, but not in a condescending way, if that is what scares or offends you. I _know_ how strong you are. You don't need to prove it to _me_."

_But maybe to yourself_, _Oswald_, she thought. He did not look convinced, only on edge. She approached him, kneeling down in front of him and placing her hand on his bad leg.

"Does it hurt, with my hand here?"

He shook his head. _He probably would not tell me if it did, anyway._

She unwrapped his leg from under the coverings as if it were a delicate gift—which, when she considered it, it was—and trailed her fingers like tiny butterflies over his ruddy, rippled flesh. She surveyed how his ankle had healed incorrectly, twisted outward and gangly.

"I am not a sideshow freak, you know," he murmured.

"I know."

_Why is it that I always seem to do so much so wrong_? Still, she felt the need to press on, as if he was silently pleading for her to touch him but would never in a million lifetimes say the words aloud.

"I am _not _like them," he insisted, his voice nearly breaking.

"I know you're not," Cassandra's brows puckered, like two caterpillars giving each other high-fives with their faces. She leaned her cheek lightly on his knee and scrutinized him before deciding to place a myriad of kisses upon his mangled skin.

Cassandra never considered anything being "wrong" with those people. She found them interesting—living, breathing works of art. She remembered loving them.

But she loved Oswald too—more than she had loved anyone, and he was deeply bothered by his condition, even if he did not mention his affliction or purposely draw attention to it. It was a poison that festered deeper than a rotten wound. Another mark of abuse someone else had forced upon him—insisted he endure throughout his lifetime.

_Never again. I will cut down those who deign to mistreat him_.

Oswald was an injured, frightened animal who daily believed that he existed in a trap. He would do anything to survive, and had.

Prestige. Power. Respect. He would claw and bite and fight to capture them.

He would also stop at nothing to be admired and needed and loved.

Cassandra realized that all these things conflicted within him like a whirlwind and knew at this moment to tread lightly.

She continued to kiss his leg and nuzzle him with her nose.

"Stop," he whispered. When she persisted, he spoke again. "Stop." He took her face in his hands. "Let's go home," he said.

"Home?" she asked. "I thought this _was_ your home."

"A boy used to live here," he said. "But he doesn't any longer."

"What about . . ."

"Mother? She has been upset with me before—although I will confess," he laughed uncomfortably and scratched his head. "Not at this level, but she _has_ gone to bed without speaking to me on many occasions—one incident arising quite recently, in fact. Trust me when I tell you, she will not come out. It is of no use for me to stay here. I will call on her tomorrow—the prodigal son returned, but at this moment, I want to go _home_."

He found his cellphone and called the club, figuring Gabe would be asleep, but maybe there was someone else available that was _competent enough _to pick them up.

Cassandra stood and gave in to an urge to run her fingers through his steam-dampened hair. He responded like a kitten, and she slipped her right leg in-between both of his giving him the perfect angle to run his hand up and down the inside of her thigh, where he gave her a few squeezes, before covering the mouthpiece of his phone briefly to address her.

"You will probably want to wear one of my coats or grab one of my briefs. I noticed while you were kneeling that . . . _well_ . . ." He raised an eyebrow and looked at her with a smirk, unabashedly allowing his eyes to journey to her lower regions. She immediately felt her cheeks flush. (The ones on her face. Pause. Oh, _okay_—the other ones too.) Her neck was not the only part of her body that was tingling.

_I want to jump you so bad, but my tummy is not cooperating_, Cassandra thought.

"Oh, and one other thing," he said, after ending the call. ""We are going to City Hall later today and getting married. I'm not waiting any longer. I want you to be legally mine and to take you to my bed." He cleared his throat. "Your response?" He leaned back on his hands and looked up at her, anticipating her answer.

"I agree to those terms, Mr. Cobblepot, except it is _our_ bed," she corrected him. "And _I'll_ be taking _you_."

Oswald grinned. "Well, then, I believe we have reached an agreement." He clutched the front of the shirt Cassandra had on—it reached to right below her bum and strained across her chest—pulling her between his thighs and closing them and his arms around her to keep her there.

"You should wear my shirts more often. _Just _my shirts. You certainly wear them better than I do."

Cassandra ran her fingers all over the top of his head, mussing his hair. He closed his eyes and lowered his head, allowing her to do so.

"Oh, I think you look much better in your shirts. Much better out of them too." She heard him chortle below, his shoulders lurching from the quick laugh.

He gazed up at her, "I cannot wait to address you as Mrs. Cobblepot," he said. He rested his chin against her torso so he could watch her as she continued to play with his hair, admiring its sheen and the blue of his eyes as he blinked those long lashes at her.

"I cannot wait to be Mrs. Cobblepot and for you to be my husband. Mine."

He sighed happily. "My wife. Mine," he breathed, lowering his face and holding his cheek against her stomach, careful not to press into her too hard lest she run back to the powder room for a second helping. "At long last."

She felt his grip tighten around her.

"_Mine_," he murmured.


	57. Chapter 56

Chapter 56

Oswald held Cassandra on his lap as the SUV crept through the streets of Gotham. He liked the fact that she chose to wear a pair of his briefs and, because of the milieu of tonight's events, he had forgotten that she had worn her own coat when she came over and did not need his. He understood why she did not don it when checking in with the dead man—blood and whatnot. No need mussing up perfectly functioning outerwear with slimy inner body workings.

Of course, he would have bought her another one.

He would buy her anything she wanted.

Or steal it.

Or even blackmail someone for something she fancied.

_Sigh_. There were so many creative ways to get what one wanted, and Oswald considered himself an artist. His script was lyrical, the setting—symbolic, and the plot—so very well thought out, but it was the ending that was the pièce de résistance. When the curtain came down on the final act, Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot would be the man in charge. The playwright stunning the audience when he makes his reveal as the star of the show.

Encore, bravo, take your bow.

As for mother. He would furnish her with whatever she wanted as well. It always seemed to make her happy, soothe her wounded soul, whenever he presented her with a new token of his affection, although (he fought to ignore the knowledge) those moments were short lived. He convinced himself it was because of being a struggling-to-survive single mother—she had tried to make ends meet best she could after his father . . . _passed away._

Oswald had enjoyed spending time in the bird shop she had had opened when he was an adolescent. He easily and willingly helped her during business hours after school and on the weekends—cleaning the bottom of the birdcages, enlightening customers about specific species, even referring to their Latin names in some instances. He had always liked showing people how intelligent he was.

Together they had managed to keep it afloat for few years until he was out of high school. It had been going downhill almost since the day it opened. The first few weeks, it had been a novelty. He thought it was because people were showing a sudden interest in ornithology. Oswald rejoiced in the belief that he had finally found a way to fit in! Later, he realized, the public came to see the crazy lady with the weird son and the rumors that flew around them.

If she was so crazy, why did the bank lend her the money to start the business in the first place? Of course, his mum had been rather mum on that topic. It had been a loan from the bank, right? Her vagueness had troubled him. He had still never figured out where she got the start-up money and never revisited that line of questioning again.

Looks like we all have our secrets.

Once the salivating gawkers had their curiosity satiated, the store took in an average amount, barely breaking even—never garnishing a profit, until finally it had to close all together. His mother had simply opened the front doors one day and set all the birds free. Oswald had come home to a store devoid of his only friends. She had not even let him say goodbye.

Still, he was appreciative. The business had been a place of refuge for him, sitting amongst the cages, feeding his feathered friends, confiding in them—except the parrots—one had to be careful about what one said around the parrots. They repeat things.

As a naïve boy, he thought being the son of a storeowner and educating others about the wonders of birds would impress his schoolmates, but it only seemed to anger and distance them from him. They also could not appreciate Shakespeare, or any form of poetry—_or prose_ for that matter. Oswald was even confounded to realize his mates did not appreciate the opera. Not even a little bit. The combination of these peculiar tidings baffled him.

Could they not think for themselves? Had they no opinions on art or philosophy? Was it indeed _he—_the descendant of a war hero and an original founder of Gotham_—_who was the odd man out? How could that be?

Oswald found he could never communicate on their level, and lamented that fact. It made him lonely, resentful. He thought it was because he was not good enough but, as he aged, he grew to believe that just the opposite was true.

He was better.

Yet, deep down, he really could not buy _completely_ into his little white lie that even now he continued to sell to himself like a snake oil salesman. When would he ever be good enough?

_Do not dwell on these things anymore, Oswald_.

The SUV pulled up to the curb and Oswald nudged Cassandra awake. It was at times like this when he wished he were tall and brawny so that he could easily carry her inside instead of her having to nimbly avoid dirty puddles or the crumbling sidewalk that seemed to purposely try to trip people. Even if the lounge sat in the middle of a meadow made of cashmere and rose petals, he wanted to be able to sweep her off her feet. Literally.

He felt his depression settling in and the paranoia that he had just battled returned.

_Make it go away_.

Cassandra must have sensed it.

"Come here," she said gently, when they got to their room. She stripped him of his wool coat and had him sit on the bed as she removed his socks and shoes, being mindful of his right leg.

_I am a complete failure. What the hell is wrong with me_? _I am about to gain everything I have ever wanted, and yet I pout like a spoiled nipper._

"Why do you like me?" he asked her. He sounded like an unsure child at recess probing his only playmate for an answer.

Cassandra began unbuttoning the velvet jacket he had put on back at his mother's apartment. It was a dark green—so dark it could pass for black. He wanted to keep the burgeoning respect of his amateur cronies, so he had redressed in a crisp white shirt and dark three-piece suit. He thought he would have looked rather silly showing up in nothing but underwear, white socks, and shiny wingtips.

She stopped what she was doing and sat on the bed beside him. He enjoyed the view.

"Well, for starters—you held my hair back as I threw up," she said. "That's commitment." He offered her a partial grin and she undid his criss-cross tie.

"I like that you decided to get completely dressed before returning to the club. Remind them who is in charge. I like that you slip dollar bills to the homeless children when you think no one is looking." Oswald's pale skin turned a subtle rosy hue.

"I only do that to make them go away," he said.

Cassandra continued. "And that you let your staff to take home any leftover meals."

"The rats will gather if I do not allow this—and we both know how much I hate rats in my kitchen." He snorted at his joke.

"You toss your spare change in a street musician's upturned cap if the music moves you." He looked down. Anywhere but at her face.

"The coins make too much noise when I move and add an unsightly lump in my pockets. Disrupts the line of the outfit."

"I hope you will never stop doing any of those things, or the next thing I am about to tell you."

He grinned. "Tell me. I will not stop. I pledge not to stop any of it."

"Okay, but I mean it—don't you dare stop. None of it. This next one is a classic—completely personal and your own. You do this sideways thing with your mouth whenever you are considering something."

He acknowledged that news by issuing a single nod and raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"Shall I go on?" Cassandra asked him. He was now playing with the material at the corner of his shirt she was wearing.

"Please do."

"You are the most intelligent man I have ever met. You think fast on your feet and are clever in tight spots. You are not afraid to give me the reins with your weaponry—that is a _huge _aspect of the trust and respect that you have for me, and I cannot thank you enough for that—because I have _no idea_ what you see in me that would give you that kind of confidence."

He looked at her and started to say something, but Cassandra held up her hand and shifted her position until she was facing him more, her knee touching his leg. He could not help but sneak a downward glance before meeting her eyes again.

"You have an impressive work ethic. Oswald, this list could go on—for instance, I am fascinated by _your_ fascination with birds. Even when I am angry with you, I still want to be near you—with you." He was leaning closer to her now, looking at the crease where her knee bent. "I respect the fact that you see to your mother's needs." Cassandra said this in a whisper, and Oswald almost laughed at her because it sounded like she was choking on the words. He was not a complete idiot. He knew his mother was atrocious to Cassandra. Still, that Cassandra said that to him meant a great deal.

"I like that you do not let your setbacks define you. With all the injustices you have endured, you could have wrapped yourself in a blanket and hid in a corner, but instead you came out of that corner swinging—like a champion boxer. You make me proud to be yours."

She wrapped her arm around his back and pulled him in for a hug while her other hand gently touched his bad leg. After a moment, he scooped up her hand from his leg and placed a kiss upon the back of it, his mouth lingering, then turning it over, bestowed a kiss upon her palm. He then placed his face in her hand and closed his eyes.

"I like that you set yourself apart from the crowd. You are not a follower. You are a doer. I also like your gait. I know you don't, but I do—I am only sorry for how you acquired it and the pain it gives you on so many different levels. I like that you have been brave enough to reveal yourself to me—not just physically by showing me your leg—but also what is going on in that mind and heart of yours. Thank you for not closing me out. Even if you did, Oswald," she sighed, unbuttoning his vest with her other hand. "I would still love you."

He looked at her. "It's important to me that you _like_ me too."

"_I do,_" she insisted.

His eyes softened and he smiled at her—a tired, blissful smile. "Say that again."

She grinned back at him and slowly whispered, "_I . . . do_ . . ."

He reflected on all these things as he fell asleep with Cassandra wrapped around him like a taco shell, spooning him, her warm breath ruffling the hairs on the back of his neck, one of her legs crossed over both of his. He pushed aside the dull ache in his knee and ankle, choosing instead to caress her calf or thigh, mulling over their conversation and wishing her stomach had not been upset.

Again, he took up the sword to slay his self-doubt as he lay there in the semi-darkness, making a list of all of his defects, and he hated himself for having them. Then he hated himself for entertaining such ridiculous thoughts of having any inadequacies at all, because he knew _he really was_ "all that".

_Sigh_. But not really. _Dammit._

Oswald's night had been restless, regardless of all the uplifting things Cassandra had said as now her words fought with the memory of the hardships of his childhood. He kept reminding himself that he was a man now and the harshness of youth should be forgotten—_that_ season was over, dead and gone.

_Yes, buried like a corpse_, he decided over a croissant and hot tea the next day when Jim Gordon walked into the club. The detective was not in a good mood, demanding to get an invitation to a questionable, highly secretive club called the Foxglove—its specialty consisting of various fetishes, which eventually ended up trapping the sexizens of Gotham—from the faux pristine and highly influential to the lowly and vastly insignificant—in their own bondages.

Oswald had tried to make a joke out of Jim needing to get an invite, but all Jim had done was grab him by his collar and threaten him.

It was getting to be a habit that Oswald intended to break.

He had wanted to share the good news of his engagement to Cassandra with him, only he did not get the chance to so and it hurt his feelings—those memories of being bullied on the playground rushing back to him and instantly making him angry instead of afraid. The gun held beside Oswald's head, pointed at Butch, did not deter him from standing up to Jim, timidity melting away. Showing a moment of bravado that Oswald frequently faked, he had reminded Jim that the cop already owed him a favor.

"So I'll owe you another one," Jim snarled. Oswald narrowed his eyes at him. If his customers and his acquaintances at the Foxglove realize he had sent a cop into their midst, it would put him on the blacklist—not that he frequented the club. It was beneath him, but he knew the players, and contacts had been made. Because of this fact, he felt he should know the reason.

_Let me know why, or no invite._

"It's no business of yours."

"I'm a member of the public. I pay taxes, which means I pay your salary, and it is my head on the guillotine if you mess up and then my face and name, along with yours, will be mud. Who will trust me then and how will you get the information you want?" Oswald hissed.

"You have a point," the detective said through gritted teeth and released Oswald. "It won't be me going. It will be Harvey."

"Oh, _that_ is _much_ better." He hoped the cop noticed his sardonicism as he straightened the fresh wrinkles Jim had just put in his shirt and vest.

"We are looking for this man." Jim pulled out the sketch and Oswald recognized him immediately as he thought of the wallet he had hidden in his office safe. This was the man who had tried to kidnap Cassandra. Of course, the address on the I.D. was a fake—Oswald had already checked there, but the name was real enough. He was glad of that. Oswald was tiring of aliases, and although he had not located the man yet, the calls to banks and other businesses had only led to a post office box, Oswald had enjoyed cancelling all the man's credit cards.

He thought it was time to cash in on one of those favors from Jim.

"So, a favor?" Oswald questioned.

"Within reason," growled the detective.

"That was not part of the deal, Jim."

Jim grunted. Oswald did not appreciate the mocking snicker.

"Do you think it _unreasonable_ to deliver to me a man who tried to _kidnap_ and do heaven knows what to my fiancé?" Oswald spit out.

Jim laughed and rolled his head. Oswald believed he actually was making the cop uncomfortable.

"Your fiancé?"

"Cassandra. You remember her, I am sure. I wanted to share the happy news with you when you first walked in, but it was obvious that you were not on a sociable call." Jim shrugged. "_You owe me_," Oswald reminded the detective.

"I'm not bringing this man to you. I don't think he would make it out of this club with all his pieces."

Oswald smiled. "Jim, _we are_ friends. I am so pleased to realize this." Oswald's smile was cold, his eyes like glaciers. "You know me _so well_."

"I'm _arresting_ him, and he will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law."

"How gallant. If you find this man, you shoot him dead—do not arrest him. _That_ is the full extent of the law that he deserves. Now if you do not mind, _old friend_, I have commitments to which I need to attend, including getting you your coveted Foxglove invitation. Good day."

Oswald did not give Jim the chance to turn his back on him, instead he stood and straightened his jacket before hobbling out of the room, away from the most honest cop in Gotham. Butch took a few steps toward the officer, crossing his arms and puffing his chest.

"We will let you know when the invitation comes through," Butch said. Jim had no choice but to leave the club.


	58. Chapter 57

Chapter 57

"I know we have not had a moment to pick out the rings, but I had already made concessions in regards to that. I hope you do not mind. I think you will be pleased with what I have to offer." Oswald said as he approached Cassandra.

"I always am, hot stuff," she said, pivoting in her chair to face him. He would never get used to her unbridled attraction to him.

She sat at the worktable with a welding helmet covering her face. The acrid scent of burnt wires and smelted metals met his nostrils joined by the dank air of Gotham that crept in through an open window, allowing a chill to enter the room.

He thought Cassandra had never looked sexier—working on an umbrella sword, covered in soot and grime, wearing fitted pants, and her hair escaping from a ponytail gathered loosely at the base of her neck. The dark tendrils bounced around the coppery helmet, the visor now lifted as her grey-blue eyes peered out at him. She was an iron woman, a living steampunk doll.

"Albeit, I hope you will not be cross with me or creeped-out . . ." he continued, adding a nervous, lilted laugh. She tilted her head and playfully narrowed her eyes at him, waiting; the torch she had been manipulating turned off and placed to one side.

Looking rather pleased with himself, he hid his hands behind his back. "Guess which hand."

She pointed to his right and he promptly exchanged the surprise from his left hand to the one she had picked.

"You are correct!" he exclaimed, holding out his balled up hand to her and uncurling his fingers to reveal a set of rings in the middle of his palm.

"Oswald, they're beautiful!" she exclaimed, removing the helmet and placing it on the chair. She took the rings from him and examined them. "So lovely." Oswald enjoyed the shine illuminating from her face.

_I am the cause. I did this_. He rocked up and down on his good leg, his hands clasping his lapels. He looked like the owner of the horse whose jockey had just won The Derby. Of course, Oswald was also the horse and jockey in this scenario.

"Why did you think I would be cross or creeped-out?" She asked him.

"Well," he rubbed at an imaginary itch on his nose and looked at the rings, not her. "The rings are pewter and bronze . . ." He stopped.

"Go on." She placed hers on her ring finger, left hand, and held it to the light, admiring the artistry of the piece. Oswald rushed out his next words.

"_I got the pewter from the buttons on your white dress that you were going to burn when we encountered the roaches in your uncle's trailer_!"

She looked at him, her brows wrinkling.

_Oh, I have done it now. _He could feel an uninvited blush creeping into his cheeks_._

"I looked everywhere for that dress. You mean it was not destroyed in the fire?"

Oswald lightly bit his lips together and shook his head. Cassandra continued.

"_You_ took my dress?"

He closed his eyes and nodded quickly. "I took it because it _was _yours. A token from our time spent together." He looked at her. "I sadly was convinced that our paths would never converge again. It hurt to know this and I . . ." He shook his head again and shrugged his shoulders. Suddenly he was defensive. "_You said you were going to burn it anyway_!"

Cassandra grabbed him and pulled him in for a hug. "You are a romantic, Oswald. I'm so glad I get to see that side of you even if nobody else does." She kissed him. "I'm not mad or creeped-out. I'm touched, and you're right—I did say that. Just when I think you couldn't impress me more, you do." She kissed him again before running a finger over the ring's design. It was pewter with a single bronze swirl hugging the band in an uneven embrace. In the center, the pattern changed to symbols.

"What does this mean?"

"It's Hebrew for 'loved'—in case you doubt, or ever forget," he whispered, his defensives soundly dissolved. Oswald knew she was probably kicking herself for the fresh tears that formed in her eyes. She nodded her head and sniffed, caressing the design.

"Where did the bronze come from?"

"The jacket I wore on the day I met you. The bronze wraps around the pewter because I want you to know that you will always have me wrapped around your finger." He sounded like the lovelorn goons he used to make fun of when sitting with the parrots in his mother's shop, although secretly he envied those Romeos—the young and the old alike. However, right now, he fervently did not care if he mirrored a Hallmark Channel movie, and was reminded of a Lord Byron quote: _Who loves, raves._

It made Oswald grin when Cassandra's mouth went slack and her face flushed. Oswald knew that in _three . . . two . . . one_ . . . she flung herself on him and smothered his face with her kisses.

_Romance is NEVER overrated_, he thought to himself. In fact, he liked the challenge and the creativity involved. It was every cherished thought and hope he had clung to all these years perfectly poured into the vessel of his longing, his very own true love. Cassandra.

_Requited_ love.

It was too much to ingest. He would pop from the gluttony of it all. Explode. His guts going everywhere. Happily.

It was better than killing, he was surprised to discover. If he did not have her around to woo continuously, it would be a bloody day in Gotham indeed.

_Bloodier than normal, that is_, he mused.

"Did you design these?" she asked him, brushing her cheek dry, slipping his band on her thumb.

"Yes. I did not overstep my bounds, I hope. I wanted to surprise you."

"You certainly did that, quite pleasantly, in fact. I don't know what to say. I will never take this ring off. Not even to wash my hands."

"Well, you have to take it off once more, until we are asked to present them." He motioned for her to give him hers and slipped it on his pinkie finger. "Keep mine with you." He had a sudden urge to grab her face and kiss her. He did not ignore it.

When he pulled back to gaze at her, she grabbed his hand and led him to another table. "Do you want to see my progress on the bullet-resistant umbrella? I want to put in metal plates for added protection, but cannot decide exactly how—whether as scales, like a dragon opening its wings, or more in the line of a chainmail weave."

Oswald picked up the umbrella and noticed its weight. "It's heavier than the usual umbrella," he commented, and Cassandra nodded.

"It's about to get heavier once I add the alloy. I had considered a liquid armor too—supposed to be lighter—but that will have to be tested."

"Liquid armor?" he asked. "I am intrigued."

"Do you remember playing with a substance called "oobleck" as a kid in science class?"

He sneered and nodded. _Science class. School. His adolescent hell_.

"Well—there is a substance that is not on the market yet—well, not the legitimate market. Cannot get it at a retail store, but it is gaining interest on the black market. This new goo is rumored to be like oobleck on steroids." Cassandra timidly glanced at Oswald, his mouth was agape. "I know it sounds stupid, and I'm probably an idiot for considering—"

"No, no, go on. I am truly rapt. You are _not stupid_. Stop saying that."

She offered a small smile and nodded. "When force is applied to the fluid, the contact causes the fluid's viscosity to increase. The more force applied, the denser the material becomes. The theory is that when it's struck with a high-velocity projectile—like a bullet, for instance—the solution becomes exceedingly hard—solid even—almost instantaneously."

_I chose well_, he thought, dumbfounded.

"The problem is retaining the liquid throughout the umbrella as opposed to it running down to the tip when closed."

"Packets," said Oswald. "Individual, miniature aramid packets."

Cassandra nodded. "Of course. Packets."

"I am going to have the coolest, heaviest umbrella in Gotham."

"Mmmm," she hummed, motioning with her finger for him to follow. "May I present to you the umbrella torch, using an itty bitty flamethrower that can be detached and replaced when spent." She demonstrated. "The cloth is fire-resistant up to a point, then it burns away depending on how long you hold the stream, which itself . . ." She pointed the umbrella towards the center of the room and pressed the trigger. "Does not burn for very long." After a few seconds, the flame extinguished. "_This one_ is my personal favorite."

"I never would have guessed," he teased. She placed the weapon aside and suddenly took hold of Oswald, clutching his labels and staring up into his face.

"When are you going to make me yours?" she asked. He blinked and sputtered.

_Now. Right now_.

"I have to meet again with Conner and call on Mother." His voice cracked as he managed to get the words out. When they could finally be alone together, he wanted absolutely _no distractions_. _NO DISTRACTIONS_!

Well, besides Gotham burning away the dross, a.k.a., the crime families. _BUT OTHER THAN THAT_!

"And if she is not amicable, are you still going to marry me _today_?"

"_Nothing_ is going to prevent me from marrying you today. In fact," he pulled out his cellphone and started to make a call when there was a knock on the door.

"Boss?" came Gabe's voice. Oswald opened the door. "Conner is downstairs," the burly man informed him.

Oswald nodded. "Thank you, Gabe. I will be down shortly." Oswald turned to Cassandra, who looked sheepish and waved him away with a resigned grin.

"I know, I know," she sighed. "Business must come first." She turned her back to him to continue working on the weapons and heard the swish of his slacks as he hobbled over to her and wrapped his arms around her waist. He whispered into her ear, her hair tickling his nose.

"Not _first_. Not first, a balanced scale. Only for a season. This too shall pass. We are on the precipice. The royal couple of Gotham." He spun her around to face him. "Then you can issue to me your first official order as the queen of this city and I shall obey. Whatever you command, whatever your bidding, I will do it. This I swear."

Before she could protest his oath, he crushed his mouth to hers and tightened his arms around her, gripping her hair firmly and clinging to her as if she were a lifesaver and he a drowning man.

_Because I am_, he thought. _She will be the death of me_.


	59. Chapter 58

Chapter 58

_Cassandra—the ultimate death of me . . . and the absolute life of me_.

No matter the task at hand, Oswald always found his thoughts drifting back to his fiancé, even if just for a fleeting moment. Perhaps it was a remark he overheard—spoken by someone nearby, or the lingering scent of gardenia on his jacket or hands that offered him a whisper of the aroma with each subtle move he made, or a glimpse of a patron smoking a cigar or cigarette in the darkness of his club—the burning ember hypnotizing him, that brought her to mind.

_Whatever the cause, I must concentrate on business or I am most assuredly a dead man_.

Oswald had spoken with Conner and extolled himself for being so clever, especially proud of the moment when Conner had asked Oswald how he knew Maroni would be at Lydia's on a certain day and at a specific time. It was satisfying to see the admiration on Conner's face when he pushed the newspaper towards him. It contained a front-page article on the release of Tommy Bones from prison. Lydia's place would be his first stop, and Maroni would be waiting to welcome the mobster back into the loving arms of "the family".

_I hope they enjoy the surprise party I have planned for them_. Oswald sniggered to himself.

It was too easy really. He stopped being surprised a long time ago about how effortlessly people were manipulated. It was _almost_ boring. Just find out what motivates a person and he (or she) was like a puppet. He could twitch a finger and those sheep on strings fell in line, all the while thinking _they_ were the great and powerful ones, _they_ were the wizards in charge.

He laughed. Did this make him Dorothy? No, he preferred cats to dogs, and birds above them all, of course. Particularly the soft one, upstairs.

Besides, he had always rooted for the wicked witch. While he ruminated on this, for some inexplicable reason, his mind unexpectedly drifted to his mother.

After wrapping up the finalities with Conner, Oswald had Gabe drive him to his mother's home. When he knocked on the door of Apartment 9, Gertrud did not answer.

_Good thing I crafted a spare key_, he thought, as he pulled it from his pocket. Of course, the lack of keys had never kept him out of anywhere.

"Mom?" he called out as he entered the room. Dusty as usual. He sneezed.

"Go away," she said in that thick accent of hers, made thicker by the presence of alcohol in her system. An empty bottle sat nearby.

"I see you have been into the sherry," he said. "Again."

"What business is it of yours?" she groused.

"You have gone through the entire bottle! You're dead drunk."

"I'm _dead_!" she espoused, sitting upright suddenly. "My boy has taken up with some hussy and left me on my own, with no regards for my feelings or my needs." She sniffed into a handkerchief and leaned back in her chair directing her face away from him. "A boy I don't even know."

"Mother. You know me. I'm your son." He knelt at her knees, unsuccessfully trying to hide a grimace from the sudden pain that shot up his leg. "Your Oswald, your _copil_. Your baby boy. I am who I always was." Gertrud peered at him sideways through slitted eyes as he gingerly took her free hand and kissed it.

She looked at him full on, no warmth in her face. "And who is _that_?" she asked him. "Someone who runs around with stray women and commits who knows what kind of atrocities?" She threw her hands up towards heaven. "Ah, your dear Papa. What would he say?"

Oswald made no attempt to reclaim her hand but instead rose clumsily from his positon, balancing himself by taking hold of the side table. "I am sure there would be a lot he would say on the matter—not just with his words, but with his fists as well." His face was grim, his mouth downward turned.

"_Oswald_!" Gertrude said sharply, crossing herself and spitting on the carpet. "Never speak ill of the dead!"

He rolled his eyes at her dramatics and shuffled a few steps away from her.

_Do you not realize, Mother, that those are just empty gestures. Hollow superstitions, _he ranted in his head. He turned to face her and spread his arms.

"Okay—I will say something positive about the dead. _I'm glad he is_!"

She stood abruptly and suddenly he was afraid of her. She approached him like a lioness. "You take that back," she growled. Oswald's hair stood on end, but he whispered an honest response.

"No."

The slap surprised him, and by the look on her face, it had surprised Gertrud too. He held the side of his cheek, not daring to look at her, tears stinging his eyes—not from the pain—not exactly, but from the fact that she had just hit him. She had actually _hit him_.

Like everybody else.

He saw his reflection in a family portrait suspended on the wall, and shifted his eyes to her reflection in the photograph as well. She held her hands to her lips, unable to speak for what she had just done. He saw her image reach for him.

"Oh, Oswald. I am so sorry," she breathed.

He nodded. "It was the drink, I am sure." He would not look at her, choosing instead to focus on the carpet. He bit the inside of his lower lip, inviting the pain and the blood into his mouth in order to keep it from trembling. She pawed at his face.

"Please. How foolish of me. Can you ever forgive your mama?" She cooed, brushing her fingers against his cheek, which was beginning to redden. He nodded.

"Of course. Of course I forgive you." Oswald paused a moment. "You can make it up to me." She looked at him skeptically and he returned her gaze.

"How so?" Her brows knitted. "Ah, I know—I make your favorite meal."

He laughed uncomfortably. "I was not thinking that."

"I bake your favorite cake then, no?"

"No, that is not it either. Why do you keep trying to pump me full of food?" he chuckled, starting to relax. "You are going to make me fat."

"How then to make it up to you?" She turned cold again. "You should love your mother unconditionally . . . like good boys do, and not _blackmail_ them. Tangle with their feelings. Blackmail, black heart."

"You are the one who hit me, Ma," he said meekly, not noticing that he was attempting to rub the sting out of his cheek.

She wobbled her head as if trying to avoid a pesky, buzzing insect. "What would you have me do?" she asked.

"Come with me to City Hall. Be a happy witness to Cassandra and me as we are married. I want you to be there. _To give the groom away_," he tried to lighten his request with humor. Gertrud was having none of it.

"I stay here and drink instead," was her answer. "Perhaps you come home to find me dead from alcohol poisoning. Then what you think? Maybe Maroni is right! Maybe you _are_ a monster." She turned with a graceful flourish, her butterfly sleeves billowing, and regally planted herself back upon her chair. Oswald drooped his head and nodded. He stayed silent for a while, hoping that she would offer some kind words.

_I will never learn, will I? All my yearning comes to naught. Wishful thinking, all in vain_.

"I am going now," he said softly. Oswald felt as if he were moving in slow motion. With each step towards the door, he still waited for a gentle word from her.

_I am turning the knob now, Mother_. Yet she offered nothing.

_I am outside the apartment now, Mother_. No words came from her mouth.

_I am closing the door now, Mother_. He glanced up at her and she looked away. At least she had been watching him. At least he had that.

She was proud, haughty, stubborn and he would always love her.

"I love you, Ma," he said before shutting the door. He did not see as her chin mustered up a quiver and her eyes gallantly fought back meager tears. Gertrud glanced at the solo picture of her son, noticing it looked as if it had been recently dusted, compared to the rest of the bric-a-brac on the table.

_I still love him, _she lamented_. _

_Even if he _is _a failure_. She commended herself for her sacrificial love, reminding herself that "ma" was at the beginning of the word "martyr"—a word with which she could _so_ identify.

_Even if he _is _a monster_. Something she had always known he was, but had hoped his relentlessness in taking what he wanted would have improved her situation. Now she had to share what very little she had, this included Oswald, with a rival.

Gertrud got up and parted the curtains, watching him walk toward the parked SUV where Gabe waited. Briefly, Oswald stopped and turned, glancing up at the window. She placed her hand on the glass for a moment and then backed away, disappearing behind the gauze.

_No, I will not go. He has made his choice_.

Gertrud sat down. She did not feel very well. Perhaps she _had_ overdone it on the sherry a bit.


	60. Chapter 59

Chapter 59

Darkness.

Smoke.

The familiar smell of burnt flesh.

She was eight years old. There were raised voices.

She had not known. Not understood. It had been an accident. She was only trying to protect them.

A man cried out, "_Christina,_ _please_! Your family made a pact! It's why I let you into the circus in the first place, and now—through Cassandra . . ."

Amidst a yellow haze she saw them—her parents, the owner of the circus—_Haly?_—and someone else. Some_thing_ else. Something without a face. Without a nose. Only slits for eyes.

It was coming for her, its claws outstretched. She could feel those talons tearing at her flesh.

Then the scene changed. She was drowsy. Her jaw ached.

"Well then, we will take her _now_," hissed the faceless thing. "You owe ussss . . . your family owes ussss, and now the time has come . . . this generation. It was agreed."

"I _did not_ agree to it! I make no claim to my family name! That was a curse my ancestors placed upon me!" yelled the woman.

_Mom_.

"Your blood is indebted to usssss . . ." The thing pointed at me with its long, black nail.

A deep voice spoke. "_Mine_ is not, and my blood runs through her veins as well. _You have no right_!"

_Dad._

She saw the flames. Watched as the river of fire snaked its way to the people arguing.

She had only meant to scare away the creature. Hurt it a little. Make it known it was not welcome here.

But then the sidewall of the tent caught on fire.

Cassandra heard a door slam and bolted upright. She was at her workstation at the lounge. She had only meant to lay her head down for a moment and she suspected she now had an impressive amount of drool connecting her to the table. She wiped her mouth on her sleeve.

She had not expected to nod off. Had she screamed at all? She looked at the person who had just entered the room. Oswald.

"Well, it looks like Mom is not coming to our wedding," he said, limping towards her, using his umbrella as a cane. He settled into a chair next to her.

"C'est dommage," said Cassandra, still working her way out of her dream.

"Oh, you are learning French?" teased Oswald, leaning his mouth and chin into the palm of his hand while his arm rested on the back of the chair.

"No, it's something I remembered from high school."

"I assume you were being sarcastic with that _heartfelt _revelation of disappointment?"

"Oui," she answered. "Also something I remembered from high school." She reached out and touched his arm. "Sorry about your mom." He shrugged and started playing with her fingers. "By the way," she said. "Was I screaming?"

"What? When? Just now?"

"Before you came in."

"No. Were you sleeping? Did you have a nightmare?"

"Yes." He reached for her and caressed her face.

"Are you okay? Can you recall what you saw?"

"I can, which is strange. I have never remembered them before—not like this. These last two episodes were like watching family movies on melted film stock, and I did not scream this time apparently, but both times it was as if I was looking through a golden-orange cataract framed with jagged burn marks."

Oswald sadly grinned at her. "That is progress, n'est pas?" She grinned back at his use of the French phrase.

"N'est pas, indeed," she answered him. "I really _am_ sorry about your mother."

"Yeah, well." He tried to shrug it off as if it did not matter. "What can one do?"

_What can one do indeed_? She thought. _I'll go talk to the little . . . _she struggled for the right word because there were so many_ . . . and get her come myself_.

"_Welllll_ . . . why don't we wait another day and see if she will reconsider?"

"Nope."

"Why is your face pink?" She titled his head to the side to get a better look. "Did someone hit you? _Did SHE hit you_?"

_Blood. Boiling. Eyes. Red._

"It is not as bad as you think. I reassure you. Do _not_ get any ideas." He pointed his finger at her. She took a few deep breathes before batting her lashes at him.

"Why _whatever_ do you mean?" she asked with mock innocence.

"You know what I mean. She was drunk and I upset her with a careless, offhanded remark. Something I should not have said."

"_Besides_ that you're going to marry me?"

He chuckled and nodded. "I spoke rather derogatory about my _dearly _departed father."

"I assume you are being sarcastic with that _heartfelt_ endearment."

"_Oui_. Most definitely."

"She shouldn't have hit you. Period. Drunk or not. Upset or not. There's no excuse."

Oswald's bright blue eyes studied the fury on her face. "I mean it, Cassandra. Let this one slide." He changed the subject. "Tell me about your dream." She allowed him to veer the conversation in that direction, but in the back of her head, cogs were turning. She was not done with Gertrud Kapelput.


	61. Chapter 60

Chapter 60

After Oswald excused himself to make some phone calls, Cassandra grabbed the umbrella that contained the mechanisms for paralysis, hypnosis, and unconsciousness. She filled each vial with the drugs that matched the color-coded buttons and asked one of Oswald's thicker-headed lackeys to accompany her through the streets of Gotham with the excuse that she needed to buy a dress to wear to Oswald's and her upcoming nuptials.

This meant she would actually have to buy a dress. Something simple and elegant. Gee, darn. Such tough luck.

It had been too easy to slip out the back of the store and hail a cab to take her to Gertrud's. Her bodyguard-slash-driver—who clearly would never be as intelligent as a rocket scientist . . . or a rock—was already involved in a craps game and had one of the better-looking hookers hanging over his shoulder.

_Oh yeah, piece of cake_.

Also, she was super stoked because she had gotten a _reeeeeaaaaally preeeettttty_ dress. Okay_, two_. Not to mention a pair of shoes.

She carried these bags along with the umbrella into the building, avoiding the superintendent since she had failed to bring him the pie she had bribed him with the promise of earlier, and ascended the steps which led to Gertrud's apartment.

Cassandra only wanted to hypnotize Gertrud and command she attend the ceremony for Oswald's sake—because she sure as heck didn't care if her future monster-in-law showed up or not. She was also going to throw in orders that his mother no longer criticize him and never, _ever_, strike him. Where was the harm in that?

_This is a good thing I'm doing._

_A. Good. Thing_. She looked at the pewter and brass ring on her thumb.

_Isn't it?_

She was beginning to lose resolve. She had not properly tested the hypnotic drug. It might not work and she would look like a fool standing there, pointing the umbrella at Gertrud demanding she do whatever she says. Then when Oswald caught wind of what she had done—because she knew that manipulating woman would run to him, tattling on her—he would never trust her again.

The worst part was going behind Oswald's back. It was beginning to gnaw at her. The canker sore that lived in Apartment 9 was his mother after all, and he had told Cassandra to let it slide. He would be angry if he found out, and even if he did not, it would drive an invisible wedge between them—she would withdraw and he would not understand why—the secret eating away at her and, ultimately, their comradery—like a cancer.

She noticed the apartment across from Gertrud's had police tape crisscrossed in front of the door. This was the apartment of the neighbor who had thoughtfully inquired about Oswald's health on the night of the messenger's murder, and she briefly considered the possibility that this was the work of her beloved.

_No, I am being silly. When would he have the time_? She fought the temptation to test the lock, open the door, and slip underneath the yellow tape. Squelching her morbid curiosity, she turned back to the matter at hand.

She hesitated while she stood outside Gertrud's door. _Just knock and get it over with already_. Cassandra was feeling uneasy and a little slimy about all this. She took a deep breath and glanced down the hallway. At the end to her right was a window with a small ledge, normally a spot to place plants, or books, or in this case her bum. She needed to think about what she was about to, or if she was going to do it. She walked back down the hall, passed the stairs and settled on the ledge, shivering from the cool draft that seeped through the poorly sealed (not even sealed) window panes and up her spine like guilt.

_I don't know what to do. If Oswald had gone behind my back to do something to my uncle, I would have been furious. Then again my uncle had never been an asshole._

She held the umbrella in both hands, the weapon resting across her lap, her purchases at her feet. The twisted string handles of the pink-and-white-striped bags leaned against her knees. She would have to decide soon. Was she going to hypnotize Gertrud and watch Oswald's face light up when she walks through the door of the chamber, although this would risk the death of their newly minted relationship? Or, was she going to walk away now and try to help carry Oswald's bitter disappointment when his mother didn't show up, having still maintained a secure, trusting bond?

She wanted his trust. She wanted him to be happy. She wanted his mother to be what a mother should be, not this conniving self-centered woman, but she could not betray him, and that is what being here was—a betrayal. She could not live with that. She was going home. Gertrud would just have to live with her decision, which meant that Oswald would have to live with Gertrud's decision too and that broke Cassandra's heart.

By the time Cassandra had adamantly resolved to abandon her mission and return home, she heard movement from the dark pit of the stairwell and recognized the telltale shuffle and thud of Oswald's limp as he climbed the flight. His eyes met hers as he rose with each step, sadly staring her down, his face set in soft disappointment.

"How could you?" he whispered when he reached the landing. The hurt in his voice cut her.

"I didn't," she responded, looking down at the weapon in her lap. "I couldn't. I believed it to be a betrayal of your trust, so I couldn't do it. I was getting ready to come home. She doesn't even know I'm here. You can check the vial levels."

She handed him the umbrella and he took it, barely glancing at it. For a moment he did not speak, but just looked at her. Cassandra wanted to crawl under a rock. His eyes were luminous and she wished he would say something, anything, but the only thing heard was the subdued sounds of television sets tuned to the latest daily pathos of daytime soap operas, recorded for late-afternoon viewing, and the babble of intelligence-numbing reality shows that managed to kill brain cells quicker than alcohol.

When Oswald finally did speak, Cassandra started breathing again.

"I believe you." He pressed his lips together and tilted his head. "You came very close to crossing a line today."

"How did you know I was here?" Oswald gave her a look that seemed to read: "_Really_?" He pulled out his phone and shook it.

"Ah, of course," said Cassandra. "GPS."

"That only confirmed my suspicions," he said, replacing his phone. "I had an inkling you would be here. I can see the rage when it flares up in your eyes. It was there the whole time you relayed your dream to me, so I knew the gears in the back of your mind were turning. It seemed logical that you would make an appearance here—regardless of what I had said. It is actually a trait I like very much, although it frustrates me to no end. But this, _this_ I do not like."

_He's not going to want me anymore_. All that fierceness and strength she had earlier, fizzled out like a lit match discarded in a puddle. She wished she had just stayed home.

"Do you want me to leave?" she asked him. She knew this moment would come. It was that darkness inside her—the part that made her impertinent, bull-headed and then immediately timid and insecure. Oswald frowned at her and his head jerked.

"You mean _here_?" He asked, indicating the apartment building.

"No. I mean Oswald's. I mean you." Cassandra did everything she could to control a bottom lip that was now begging to tremble. Oswald's face fell.

"No," he replied incredulously approaching her quickly and sitting beside her. "No. Why would you think that?" He placed his hand on her arm. "Because of _this_?" He gestured down the hall with his other arm. She nodded and he pulled her to himself.

"No, and don't you _ever_ think that _again_! I never want you away from me. Not for an instant. Not for anything." He kissed the top of her head. "Do you believe me?" She nodded into his lapel.

_Not really_, she thought. _She would mess it up. She always messed things up_.

"I am going to have to shake you," he continued, with a wistful chuckle. "Shake all that self-pity out of you." Slowly she started to relax in his arms.

Maybe he did kill the man in the apartment across from Gertrud. Right now, she really did not care.

_Pretty much sustains my long-held belief that I belong in Arkham_.

"I know that your motive was for my benefit. It was unquestionably misguided and utterly against what I had requested of you . . ."

She pulled back to look at him. "I'm sorry," she said.

"Stop," he said before he kissed her. "I confess, I appreciate your creativity and zeal, but Mother is off limits. She will always be off limits. I must be sure you understand this." He held her by both her shoulders and was looking directly into her face. Cassandra nodded, and Oswald beamed. "Good," he smiled. "Come with me then. City Hall beckons." He stood and offered her his hand, which she gladly took.

"So you still want to marry me?" she asked.

"The first time I saw you, I wanted to marry you. That has never wavered." He held up a finger and spoke before she could. "Even when I was not present with you on the farm, I still fantasized that you were mine."

"I _knew _we had something in common." She steadied him on their way down the stairwell. "I've got you. I won't let you fall."

"I know," he answered, grinning. "So you fantasized that I was yours?" The pleasure in his voice from her revelation was evident.

"Constantly." She could feel her cheeks go red.

"I look forward to discussing this with you in further detail very soon." His eyes twinkled. "In private," he added.

"Something else we have in common," she responded. He squeezed her hand. "Oh, my driver," Cassandra remembered. "He's back at the shop—"

Oswald took a deep breath. "No actually," he said. "He is on an assignment for me." He turned to look at her, his eyes mischievous, a smirk on his face. "He is with Conner."


	62. Chapter 61

Chapter 61

Oswald enjoyed poetry. What he liked better than poetry however was poetic justice, and the fact that his enemies were beginning to extinguish as he was becoming reborn was to him such lovely meter and rhyme.

There once was a hero from Gotham . . .

He stood beside Cassandra in front the deputy city clerk in a small white room as they began to exchange vows. Fara and Gabe stood as witnesses. Oswald dressed in his best tuxedo and bowtie. They had actually belonged to his grandfather and Oswald had needed to have the suit altered to fit his wiry frame, but the lapels still had their satiny sheen and the tails cascaded nicely over his backside. At least, that is what Cassandra had told him. He grinned.

_She told me I looked handsome._

He had been saving it for a special occasion, and deep down he had always hoped that the special occasion would include a bride, although he would _never _admit that to _anybody_. It had been freshly dry cleaned, the mothball smell deposed by the scent of "fresh rain"—the dry cleaners had been running a special; it was either that or something called "desert rose"—and a brand-new white shirt, crisply starched.

Oswald and Cassandra stood facing each other and he was appreciating the scenery immensely. The dress she had chosen flattered every curve , not that she needed any help, accentuating her bosom and hugging her waist before flaring out in a bloom of white crinoline ending midway down her calves. Oswald was quite randy in the knowledge of what waited for him underneath that fluffy material. As much as he did truly love and care about Cassandra—almost obsessively, he lusted after her quite deeply. He gripped her hands tightly, her bouquet—made up of the same flowers he had brought home to her on a previous day—held by Fara.

He had planned everything down to the final detail. He went over the checklist in his head.

He had applied for the marriage license the day before (thank you internet) and supplied all the necessary paperwork to the clerk when they had arrived.

The guns were hidden at Lydia's bar (technically _his_ bar).

A reservation had been made at the most prestigious hotel in Gotham where he planned to whisk Cassandra away for a few days.

The firing clip from both guns had been removed.

Tickets to the Annual Spring Charity Ball had been purchased.

The bottle of Madre de Dios was given to Conner to take to Maroni.

He had bought _protection_.

Everything was coming together nicely. It was all working out. The commotion outside the door had nothing to do with them, he was sure of it.

"_I am the mama_!" she shouted. Hurricane Gertrud stormed into the room, a whirling dervish of black lace and silk. She wore Victorian mourning attire—lacking the bustle, but complete with dark hat and net veil that covered her face and neck to mid-chest.

"My boy, my poor misguided boy!" She keened over the wanton path her last living son had chosen to take against the wishes of his pious mother who was only thinking of him.

Oswald was appalled. "Mother!"

Cassandra swore under her breath. "Oh, you've _got_ to be kidding me."

Security had followed her in and lingered behind her, addressing the deputy court clerk. "Sir, what would you have us do? She insisted it was a matter of life and death." Gertrud shed crocodile tears into her handkerchief and grasped Oswald's shoulder, a picturesque image of a caring mother about to collapse against her rascal of a son.

The clerk sighed and lowered his glasses further down his nose in order to peer over them at Oswald. All he could think was: _I'm missing "Jeopardy" for this_?

"Mr. Cobblepot? Do you know this woman?"

"Yes, sir, she's my mother. I am terribly sorry for the interruption."

"Uh huh. Do you want your mother to be a guest at this ceremony?"

"Yes, sir . . . if—"

"Mrs. Cobblepot?" The clerk turned to address Gertrud.

"It's _Kapelput_," she corrected him through her paralyzing despair. He paused before he spoke again.

"Mrs. _Kapelput_?"

"Yes, Your Honor?" She primped her hair and dabbed her nose with the cloth.

"I am not a 'Your Honor'; I'm not a judge—as my wife reminds me every day—but don't let that discourage you crazy kids from getting married. It's a dream," he said with the conviction of a man who had buried his ambition in a graveyard long abandoned. "I am just a mere deputy court clerk who does not get paid enough to sit through scenes like this on a daily basis." Gertrud and Oswald nodded. "Did I just say that aloud?" Everyone in the room and those who gathered around the door to rubberneck the situation nodded. He stared at the ceiling and considered early retirement.

Oswald made a mental note of the man's dissatisfaction with his job position and tucked that knowledge away for a rainy day. Never know when seemingly unimportant bits of information can become useful.

"I don't even remember what I was going to say. Security, you are dismissed. Everybody _out,_ except the original party and Mrs. Kapelput, and _shut the damn door_!" He wondered how the wide-open door was not obvious. _Really? I work with morons_. One of the security guards returned, tipping his hat, and closed the door.

The deputy clerk straightened his clothes. "May we continue?" Only four people nodded. The one who did not, clutched the front of her blouse and whimpered.

"Mother, perhaps you should sit down." Oswald led her to a chair where she bravely tried to withhold a moan of angst as she clung to Oswald and settled upon the cushioned seat. The clerk pushed the glasses back upon the bridge of his nose and shook his head.

"Is this going to be a problem for you, Mrs. Kapelput?" He shuffled the papers in front of him.

"No, sir, Your Honor," she frowned. "I mean Your Most Deputied of Clerks. Sir." He rolled his eyes. "But how would you like it if the fruit from your loins break your heart and run off with some _floozy_!" She offered up a sob and made a show of choking on it. The clerk thought she should try a little harder.

"_Mother, please_! _When will you stop this persistent name-calling_?" Oswald turned to Cassandra and whispered, "I am _so sorry_." She just shrugged and crossed her arms over her chest.

Gabe gestured toward the clerk. "Hey, don't you have a gavel or something?" He was rewarded with a cold stare.

"Mr. Cobblepot, do you want to handle this, or should I?" Oswald held up his hand and nodded.

"Mother, surely you know that I am ecstatic that you came, but if you cannot behave like the proper, cultured woman I know you to be, you will be asked to leave. I would prefer it not come to such extreme measures." He pleaded with his eyes.

"I behave," she said, patting the side of his face. The same side she had slapped. Oswald could practically feel Cassandra ball her hands up into fists. He adjusted his suit and went back to Cassandra, taking her hands and massaging them. He had been right about the fists and continued kneading the tenseness from her fingers. Oswald was grateful there were no candles in the room, because candles meant matches, matches meant fire, and Cassandra wanted to something to burn.

Or someone.

"Then let us proceed," the clerk said. He had barely said the words "do you Oswald", when Gertrud let out a wail and stretched herself across the chairs beside her. The clerk removed his glasses and slammed them on the pedestal in front of him.

"Mr. Cobblepot, inform your mother that one more outburst and she will be removed!"

"_No one touches her_!" Oswald yelled back and then regained his composure. "Sir. I apologize. She has a condition," he lied.

"Terits?" he asked. The sarcasm was not lost on Oswald.

Oswald glared at his mom. "Something like that." He could see her grinning from behind the handkerchief. This did not make him happy.

"Funny, I could have sworn the condition was something else. I have smelled nothing but alcohol since she entered the room. What will it be, Mrs. Kapelput? Would you prefer observing a nice, quiet, quick elopement performed in a lovely, climate-controlled room where all is pastels and softness and bunnies, blah, blah, blah . . . ? Or would you rather be escorted to a dirty, dark cell where the reek of unbathed criminals settles into your pores and you are given a tin cup for a toilet. You _do _realize I can have you arrested for disorderly conduct and public intoxication."

"That will not be necessary," stated Oswald. "Will it, Mother?" Demons would wear parkas in hell before he would let anyone touch his mother—but if the threat worked, he would use it.

"Maybe we should marry another day." He heard Cassandra sigh behind him.

"No," he stated tersely.

"Well, then—do you want me to go get the umbrella?" she asked. He slowly turned and raised his brows at her, and she smirked. "Just a suggestion. Too soon?" He tilted his head. "Oh, come on—you know I'm kidding." He stifled a grin and turned his attentions back to Gertrud.

"Well, what will it be, Mother? Jail or me?" Gertrud took her time answering, looking at each of them, lingering her gaze upon Cassandra and then back to Oswald. She made the motion of locking her mouth and then throwing away the key.

She had decided she would do as the saying goes: If she could not beat them, she would join them. Cause some problems. That would be fun. Also, there was still the matter of the highly anticipated future grandson who would no doubt happily keep her up in better condition than she found herself now. She could worry about disposing of Cassandra after his birth. She looked around the room and hoped they would be serving cocktails.

The clerk replaced his glasses and said, "Now that _that_ is settled—" He looked to Mrs. Kapelput. "That is settled, isn't it?" She nodded sweetly. "Then let's get down to business."

Oswald hugged Cassandra and whispered more apologies into her ear, stroking her hair. He had no idea that Cassandra was silently preparing for battle. Only the clerk clearing his throat got his attention. He was surprised his mother had not had a conniption fit over his show of affection toward his bride-to-be.

"Now, lovebirds. Are _you_ both ready?" He tapped his watch.

Oswald stood closer to Cassandra than he had before, afraid she would flee, and held both her hands in his. He mouthed "I love you". She smiled at him and mouthed it back.

At the same moment that Conner was telling Maroni that Falcone was sending celebratory greetings, Oswald said "I do." As the clerk turned to Cassandra to recite the vows to her, Conner and his partner discovered that the guns would not fire. When Cassandra said "I do", her bodyguard-slash-driver was getting riddled with bullets. While the couple exchanged rings, Maroni breathed into Conner's face telling him he would soon take a message to Falcone. As Cassandra and Oswald embraced for a kiss, Conner lost his life. The moment Cassandra threw the bouquet back to Fara, Maroni tossed Conner's head into a box marked "tomato sauce".

When the ceremony was over, the clerk offered the new husband his most hearty congratulations. Oswald did not hear the official offer Cassandra his most sincere condolences.

_All in all, it was a good day_, thought Oswald. His mother had been surprisingly silent during the proceedings. Had not protested—not even a squeak—when he had kissed Cassandra, rather longingly too.

_She has come around_, he thought, quite too optimistically.

Sadly, they discovered, he was wrong. Her silence had not been because she accepted Cassandra.

It was because she had passed out—inhaling and exhaling the veil as she snored. Cassandra preferred her this way.

"Come on, Ma, get up." He lifted the veil and tapped the side of her face a couple of times before she stirred.

"Is the funeral over?" she asked.

"Wedding," Oswald corrected her. "Get up. I'm taking you home." Oswald pulled her to her feet, but it was Fara and Gabe that supported her on either side and started walk-dragging her out the door while she ranted.

"Stop!" yelled Oswald before they got to the door. There had already been one show, the drooling masses did not need another one. According to the map in Oswald's office, there were hidden tunnels within and underneath City Hall, he just was not sure about the initial entrances and exits. He turned the clerk. "Is there another way out, a hidden backway, perchance?" The clerk considered him for a moment and then nodded, jabbing his thumb in the direction of a closed door behind him.

"It is labeled 'closet,'" said Oswald.

"A left-over treat from the Prohibition Era, used nowadays to aid runaway newlyweds," remarked the clerk. He grinned warmly at Oswald, feeling sorry for the man. "I think this situation warrants a little privacy. Just follow it all the way to the end—kind of like the yellow brick road. Stay on it, it will lead you home. Stray, and you might end up someplace you do not want to be. Have a nice day, Mr. Cobblepot." He nodded at Cassandra. "Mrs. Cobblepot."

"Thank you," said Cassandra and Gertrud, who then glared at each other.

The door opened into a dimly lit hallway about 12 feet wide and 10 feet high, big enough for a mini excavator or small bulldozer to pass through. Along the corridor were many entryways, some with doors hanging off their hinges, others bolted, and still others covered in cobwebs of chains with "Enter at Own Risk" written in red above the doors. The walls were covered in moisture and the place smelled of sewage. Luckily, there were no rats.

The floor tilted and the air got cooler. They were heading further underground, but Oswald enjoyed secrets and information and being privy to one of the rooms were the tunnels led was a tremendous bit of data. He was giddy with the knowledge that he would soon discover where the entrance was located—then the tunnels on his ceiling map would make sense.

After a few minutes of silent wandering, they came to the end of the tunnel which was nothing but a set of elevator doors and a button that read: "Press Me". Cassandra took Oswald's hand and he glanced at her before doing as the button said. The elevator opened. It was nothing spectacular—except it had another pair of doors directly across from them, the doors they just stepped through, closing behind them. There were no level buttons and no way to get out, but the car started moving, a low-level hum and vibration reverberating throughout the small area. Mrs. Kapelput clutched Oswald's other hand.

After a gentle lurch and stop, the doors opened to reveal a concrete wall with another sign that read: "Insert Me" and an 18-inch length of copper wire hanging down.

Gabe frowned. "Where are we supposed to insert that?" he asked. Oswald rolled his eyes, not answering him, and letting go of Gertrud's hand, inserted the wire into one of the several holes in the concrete until he hit the right one.

There was a rumbling and the concrete separated letting in a stream of light. Oswald pushed on the concrete and it easily opened all the way onto a side street, the entrance hidden strategically behind a dumpster and a six-foot high chain-link fence. There was a playbill on the other side of the entrance. It depicted an image of a child who had fallen down a rabbit hole, landing in a chaotic, colorful world where nothing was guaranteed except confusion and danger.

Gabe was supporting Gertrud, she refused to let of him after losing Oswald's hand, while Fara closed the secret door. It blended back into the concrete and emitted a dull thud and click, locked securely until someone who knew the secret to the entrance would come along and sneak inside.

_I will figure out the trick soon enough. Then I will have full access to City Hall and who knows what else? _Oswald mused, thinking of the numerous doors they had passed during their covert journey through the underworld.

"Well done, Oswald," Cassandra said to him. He kissed the top of her hand and breathed in deeply, relishing the smell of life and death that teemed from the garbage and from the very city itself mingled with the underlying scent of Cassandra's perfume.

Gotham was Oswald's Wonderland and he had just begun to play.


	63. Chapter 62

Chapter 62

Oswald had made a mental note of the street they exited onto and was entering the information into his computer, reconfiguring the map on his ceiling. He had not been overjoyed with returning to the club—eager to get straight to the hotel, but Gabe and Fara had insisted on returning to Oswald's since they had planned a surprise reception for the two of them. His two employees had been flattered to act as witnesses and wanted to do something special, even having the pastry chef make a five-tiered wedding cake with Bonnie and Clyde on the top as the bride and groom. Cassandra had remarked that the cake toppers definitely determined their Halloween costumes.

He was sitting at his desk, the glow of the three monitors he used reflecting against his pale skin. Cassandra lay seductively over the arm of the couch kicking her legs back and forth, her shoes on the floor, watching him. Moments before, he had been sitting at the bar watching her dance when Butch had warned him that he needed to get out of town—the hit had failed; Maroni was still alive.

Oswald had just laughed.

That had been his plan all along. Stage the hit to make it look like Falcone was trying to take out Maroni. This would lead to an all-out gang war and the gangsters would take each other out without Oswald having to lift a finger. Well, maybe just a few—to lift a glass of flat champagne to his mouth. He had not been so pleased about that.

He finished entering the last of the coordinates in the system, clicked save, and shut down the encrypted program before leaning back in his chair to look a Cassandra. She grinned at him and he could not help but grin back. Neither of them spoke, but continued to regard each other for several minutes until Cassandra stood and sauntered over to his desk to perch herself in front of him, Oswald sliding his hands underneath her skirt and pulling himself up to her the way a hungry man pulls up to dinner.

_She is wearing garters_! He cheered to himself, his hands warmed by the heat and humidity radiating from her. _I win, Gotham. IwinIwinIwinIwinIwin_.

He had hated having to call the hotel to put the champagne and chocolate-covered strawberries back on ice, letting them know that he and his wife (_his wife_!) would arrive by noon the following morning. Gertrud had insisted on coming back to the club with them since she was the groom's mother and had a right to be at the "reception". She had passed out again by the time they arrived back to Oswald's. It had been no treat hauling his intoxicated mother into the club, earning him a remark from Cassandra that it was customarily the bride who was carried over the threshold, not the mother-in-law. That had made Oswald chuckle and he left the transporting of his mother to one of the upstairs rooms to Gabe and Fara while he made a show of cracking his knuckles in preparation for lifting Cassandra.

"Oh, no, you don't," she had laughed until he had her backed against the brick wall outside.

"I think I shall employ a more primitive method and throw you over my shoulder like a caveman." He leaned into her, his hands splayed against the wall on either side of her head, with his umbrella hanging on his wrist. She wiggled her brows at him, which he interpreted as a sign to continue.

_I hope I do not drop her_.

It was easier than he thought and was surprised by his own strength, though he was careful to hoist her over his _left _shoulder to avoid putting any more weight upon his bad leg.

_Hey, I can do this_.

Oswald did nearly lose his hold on her when she ran her hands over his backside and pinched him.

"Nice view," she called up to him.

"Likewise," he responded, wanting to bite through the material that separated her derriere from his mouth.

Now she sat in front of him, the aroma of gardenia mixed with her own natural feminine scent making his head swim. He thought about how fish was a penguin's favorite food to eat, but decided to keep that crude thought to himself. There was going to be plenty of time to explore after all, no matter how ready he was to pitch his tent and raise his flag.

"I have something for you," she said in a flirty voice.

"Yes, _you do_," he said emphatically, leering at her. She threw back her head and laughed, playfully pushing against his chest with her hand. Her touch sent tingles through his solar plexus and up his spine, and he admired the ivory of her neck and shoulders. He could see the corner of his letter sticking up from her bodice, playing peek-a-boo with him.

Slowly he shook his head. _I am living in a dream_.

She was all he could see, hear, or think about at the moment. Everything else and everyone else, forgotten. He even forgot what he really thought about himself and what others—who had no care of him—had managed to convince him for a time that he was: a freak, a loser, a nobody—those notions that had stuck to him like a film of oily dust. Forgotten.

"Besides _that_," she said, reaching behind her and producing a box that he had not seen earlier. She sat forward and handed it to him. It was with much regret that he removed his hands from her thighs.

"What's this? What have you done?" he said through a smile. It was not often he received presents and he was immensely pleased. Inside the box he found a tile and a card from the Gotham City Zoo.

"The city is remodeling the aviary at the Gotham City Zoo and are fundraising for some of the proceeds. For every donation, an individual receives a tile to paint and send back in to be used to decorate the garden addition to the aviary and everyone receives a gold plaque with their name on it to be hanged along the walls inside the aviary lobby," she explained.

"You did this for _me_?" he asked and she nodded. "My name will be visible? _Permanently_? Inside the aviary? Everyone will see my name?"

She nodded again. "Yes, and I thought we could paint the tile together. It is not due back for another two weeks."

"Absolutely. I would have it no other way. This is _fantastic_." His face was beaming and he did not even know it. "Thank you. I am truly touched. This means so much." He rose from his seat to plant a kiss on her mouth.

"And there's this." She produced another gift.

"What else are you hiding up there," he joked, peaking through the crinolines as he sat back down.

"You'll find out soon enough," she said, turning pink. He bit on his bottom lip while smiling at her and unwrapped the present. It was a certificate indicating the donation made in Oswald's name written on parchment in gold calligraphy and signed by the mayor and several representatives from the zoo's board of trustees. Cassandra had had it framed. He placed his hand over his heart. "This is extraordinary," he said. "My name . . . beside the mayor's . . . supporting a cause that holds such a dear place in my heart." He kissed her knees and really wanted to continue working his way forward, but stopped, laying the framed certificate beside her. "I have something for you as well," he confessed, opening the bottom drawer of his desk.

"I know you do," she said, teasing him by running her foot along his inner thigh to his crotch.

"Besides that," he chuckled—mirroring her words, but capturing her foot anyway and pressing it against him. She answered that move by wiggling her toes and he inhaled sharply through his teeth. He reached with his free hand to grasp a rather heavy box and handed it to her. She placed it in her lap, removed the decorative lid, and dipped both her hands inside to pull out a snow globe with a tiny, dancing couple inside.

"Oh, Oswald, this is gorgeous!" she said, admiring the mechanical couple in the center of the sphere and the coppery pedestal on which the globe was secured. She shook it, and white and iridescent flakes twirled around the automations.

"I made it," he said, sounding like a grade-schooler who had just brought home his art project from school. He shifted and sat up a little straighter. "Using only the best components too—no soap flakes or plastic globe—the snow is cut porcelain and the sphere is lead crystal, so are the iridescent flakes." He chewed the skin on the side of his nails with delighted anticipation, watching her face.

She looked at him wide-eyed. "I'm speechless. I don't know what to say. Oswald, it's a work of art. The craftsmanship is marvelous. This must have taken you forever. When did you have the time?"

He only shrugged and grinned, shaking his head. "Honestly, it was something I had started on the farm—with the mechanical couple and the base. I never thought I would have a reason to finish it, and I never dreamed I would be able to give it to you. I—" He could not conclude his sentence because her mouth was on his, her free hand holding firm to the back of his head, while his hands immediately refound their home up her skirt. She broke the kiss, but kept her face close to his, nuzzling his nose, his cheek, kissing him again.

"You are so talented," she said, caressing the side of his face.

"Wind the key." He told her, breathlessly. Cassandra twisted the key on the base and strains of "Someone to Watch over Me" played as the mechanical couple spun. His fingers tickled the small bands of skin not covered by the silk stockings and lacey garter straps on her outer thighs.

"You may not remember," he whispered. "But that song was playing when you led me into the house . . ."

"Because of the cockroaches . . ."

"Yes."

"I remember . . ." She placed the globe on his desk and slid down into his lap, straddling him and clasping his face in her hands to draw him in for a thorough snogging. The buzzer sounded on his desk and he knocked it to the floor. A second later the telephone rang, and he flung it against the door, ripping it from the wall.

When his cell chirped, he handed it to Cassandra who muted it and slung it behind her while Oswald continued to trail down the side her neck with his teeth and tongue. The phone landed on the couch beside her purse, where _her_ cell was now ringing.

"They're really desperate, aren't they," breathed Cassandra as Oswald held her to him, massaging the crevice between her breasts with his tongue.

He panted, "_I'm_ the one who's desperate."

There was a knock at the door and someone tried to twist the handle. Fortunately, Cassandra had possessed the foresight to lock it. Oswald praised her for it as the voice on the other side of the door shouted, "Cobblepot! This is Detective Gordon. I have some news that you might be interested in hearing. It concerns Cassandra."


	64. Chapter 63

Chapter 63

Jim Gordon's hand was smarting. The wound was deep and would require stitches. He was grateful he had not grabbed the knife from The Ogre with his shooting hand. This was the second time his left hand had been injured since arriving back in Gotham. He injured it the first time apprehending who he thought was the murderer of the Waynes. It had been a disappointing blow to not only his ego but to his fierce sense of justice to find out that the man Bullock had shot had been framed and was in fact not the killer. Not that it mattered too much. The man his partner shot, Pepper, was a wife-beater and crook. But still. Justice had not prevailed. Not for the Waynes—particularly the boy, Bruce—and not for Pepper—although he shed no tears for the man.

_At least justice had prevailed here_, he thought.

Cobblepot's words rang in his ears: "_If you find this man, you shoot him dead—do not arrest him. __That__ is the full extent of the law that he deserves_." Even the hostess Jim had questioned at the Foxglove wanted this man dead, and with good reason. Jason Lennon had left an ugly scar across her pretty face, and he had done worse to more women since then. Gordon felt good about shooting The Ogre when the monster held Barbara hostage. Although the shot was close—he hit the man in the temple—and Jim was sick afterwards, realizing that if he had missed, he would have killed Barbara. Gordon had just acted on instinct; he had a history with her—a brief romantic relationship, although from time to time, it had been shaky.

Gordon did not like shaky, he liked stability. Also, he was ashamed to admit—it would not have looked good for him on the police report.

He had ridden with Barbara in the ambulance to the upstate hospital and had stayed with her as she was treated for the knife wound Lennon had left in her neck and for any other injuries. Bullock had followed in the car.

The hospital had its usual sanitized smell and the ER was not very busy tonight, and it was _bright_—always too bright. Barbara was catatonic and they had bandaged her wound and given her a valium and a tetanus shot. She was due for one, according to her chart.

She rested with her eyes closed on the other side of the room. Jim could see her. They wanted to put her in a private room—especially after they recognized her name—but she refused to be parted from Gordon, going almost into hysterics despite the pill. They still needed to patch Jim up, but they were not about to tell a Kean what she could or could not do, so they let her stay.

Jim sat on a hospital bed while the doctor that had just sewn up his hand went to get him his prescription for an antibiotic and a pain killer. Gordon had told the nurse he had had all his shots, which only elicited a stern look instead of the laugh he had expected.

She had no sense of humor. Or maybe he just wasn't funny. Maybe he should have left out the part about him not foaming at the mouth. Pretty much proved he had chosen the right profession.

He remarked to Harvey that he would have to let Cobblepot know that Jason Lennon was dead.

"Cobblepot?" declared Bullock. "Why would Penguin need to know this?"

"Jason Lennon had tried to kidnap Cassandra a few days ago." On the other side of the curtain that separated him from another patient, they heard a man say, "Cassandra".

Bullock snorted. "And Penguin let him live?" he asked.

"Apparently," answered Gordon, while the person next door repeated the woman's name again. "He did not know how to locate him, but he was trying. Wanted him dead."

"Well, then," said Bullock. "He will take this as happy news. Wedding gift. Might even count it towards that favor you owe him. Finally get _that_ written off your to-do list."

"Ah, yeah, about that . . ."

"Don't say it, Jim." Gordon raised his eyebrows and shrugged. The disembodied voice was more urgent, "Cassandra!" Both detectives looked in the direction of the outburst and then back to each other frowning.

Bullock implored his partner, titling his head. "Jim . . ."

"Ahhhh . . . I owe him _two_ favors." Gordon's smile was more of a sheepish grit—all of his teeth showing—and he looked like he was apologizing to Harvey. The man next to them blurted out Cassandra's name again.

"I asked you not to say it, Jim. Am I going to have to babysit you every time you talk to him?" Harvey asked, covering his face with his hands and then rubbing his eyes.

Gordon shrugged. "It was the only way I could get the Foxglove invite."

"_The only way_ . . . Next time, let _me_ to talk to the little prick. I could get _him_ to _owe me_ a favor instead."

"Oh, yeah. How would you do that, Harvey?"

"By offering to not kill him." Harvey said. "Oh, course, that would be a _tee, tiny, wee _little favor." Gordon laughed and the man next door started repeating the name "Cassandra" loudly, growing in fervor each time he said it.

Gordon looked to Harvey. "What the heck?" They slid back the curtain to see a sandy-haired man, probably in his forties, sitting wide-eyed straight up in the hospital bed, securely strapped to it.

Jim tried to calm the man. "Sir? Can I call someone for you? Do you need a nurse?"

The man turned to him suddenly and started screaming hysterically and drawing out the sound of her name with each outburst. The ER doctor and a couple of male orderlies rushed over and administered a shot in the man's arm, which acted as an instant pacifier. He relaxed but continued looking at Jim, repeating Cassandra's name. The last thing he said as he drifted off was the word "fire".

"Terribly sorry about that, gentlemen," said the doctor. "He has been a frequent visitor for a couple of weeks. Mostly harmless, but tends to get worked up on occasion. Found him wandering the streets tonight muttering her name and something about a fire—caused a disturbance, so we picked him up. Usually, we get a calls from citizens concerned about his welfare, but he has been a bit more agitated the past couple of days."

"Well, it just so happens that we are investigating a fire," Harvey lied. He wanted to know the connection between this man and the Cassandra they knew—if there was one. Any day he could one-up Penguin was a good one. "Trying to determine if it's a case of arson or something else. He have a file?"

"You know I cannot divulge that information."

"We could subpoena it," said Gordon. He had followed Bullock's line of thought.

"I look forward to receiving the order," said the doctor before he was summoned to check on another patient. A nurse who had been listening to the conversation gestured for Gordon to follow her.

"Harvey, stay here, will you? Check on Barbara, and if _he_ happens to wake up . . ." Gordon motioned to the man in the bed. " . . . See if you can get any information out of him. _Quietly_."

"So you get to talk to the cute nurse and I get . . ." They both looked over at the detained man who was currently drooling onto his pillow.

Gordon slapped Bullock on the shoulder and gave a slight squeeze. "Cheer up, Harv. Maybe they will bring him some pudding you can eat."

"Oh, ha ha," said Bullock sarcastically. "That's very funny." Gordon saluted him as he walked off. "It better be butterscotch!" Harvey yelled after him.

Gordon followed the nurse into an unoccupied office. She closed the door, leaving just a few inches of space. Satisfied that there were no prying ears or eyes, she withdrew a file from beneath her sweater. "I overheard you, and I know this is questionable, but . . ." she hesitated. "He's really just a sweetheart, in spite of that so-called arson thing."

"Arson thing?"

"Oh, yes. It's all right here in his file. When they picked him up tonight, we finally got a copy of it faxed over."

"You know him?"

She shook her head no. "Just the few times he has been brought in. His name is Harold Allnut. He is a developmentally disabled individual who has been living in a half-way house before showing up again in Gotham."

Gordon stopped her. "Again?"

"He used to live here as a boy apparently. Ran away from home is one story, the other was that he was kicked out of his parents' house. Left Gotham. He seemed to have been lucid enough to travel on his own. He carries a state-issued Illinois ID, information about his condition, and a phone number—which we did not see the first couple of times he was in because it was hidden behind a picture. You might find this interesting—spent a couple of years 'behind bars' for arson—in juvey. Hub City. He gets picked up tomorrow by his case worker, who is flying in. They have been frantic."

"Why? Is he dangerous?"

"No." She shrugged. "At least not according to his file. That is if you dismiss the arson conviction. That was a tragedy."

"What was?"

The nurse looked at him and smiled. "It's all in here," she said, tapping the top of the manila folder with the palm of her hand. "Really, a Titanic tragedy." She sat the file on top of the Xerox machine. "Obviously I cannot give you the file, but if I accidently left it on the copier and forgot to lock up the office—well, sometimes stuff like that just happens. I will probably remember that I left it in here in about ten minutes."

She walked out the office and started to shut the door. "Oh, and detective?"

"Yeah?" He picked up the file and turned to her.

"The reason I am doing this is because something frightens the man, and I think he is trying to find the girl in the picture—the one in his wallet. There is a copy in there," she said indicating the folder.

"Understood," said the detective.

He hurriedly skimmed through some of the information before making copies of every page. His eyes lingered on the black and white photocopied picture of Harold, who looked to be in his teenage years at the time, and a young girl he was holding up in his arms, smiling at her. She looked to be about eight, Jim was not sure, he had never been really good at deducing the ages of children and no amount of training would help him. Her face was lifted toward the sun and she was laughing gleefully, her arms spread, displaying a costume that made her look like she had wings made of flame. She was certain to fly away.

There was a time and date stamp that ran along the side of the photograph. He could not make out the year, but the date looked like April 13, and the circus advertisement banners that were in the background of the picture confirmed his guess. He shuffled through the papers and found Harold's juvenile detention intake papers. They read that he had confessed to a fire that had killed almost two hundred people and injured hundreds of others. It had happened at a traveling circus show approximately twenty years ago. Haly's Circus, to be exact. Harold's admission had not exactly exonerated the owners of the circus, including Nathaniel Haly, but their sentences had been reduced or pardoned upon Harold's so-called confession.

_Interesting_, thought Gordon, _since these papers indicate that the man is almost completely mute_.

According to records, it was hard to determine the cause of the fire, especially since a few days later, a storm of tornadoes had hit the area for a stretch of three days, effectively destroying the crime scene and scattering the unclaimed or unidentified bodies of burn victims from the local armory where they were being held, across a span of two miles. Fortunately, no one had died or been critically injured by the storm. The town would not have been able to take another heartache—more loss of life—so soon on the heels of the circus fire.

Although the cause had not been determined, there were other factors—factors that could have been avoided, possibly saving lives—that contributed to the catastrophe—hence the reason the nurse had referred to it as a "Titanic" tragedy. The first was a hurried setup. The circus had arrived late, missing its initial scheduled performance, and rushing through the preliminary construction of the main tent and neglecting to unpack all the fire extinguishers and hand radios. Eye witness accounts said some of the stands gave way in the stampede to exit, hinting that the bleachers had not been properly secured. The second was the fresh coat of waterproof film on the top canvas of the main tent. The coating was a mixture of paraffin and gasoline, a technique circuses no longer utilize. Basically the main tent was a torch just waiting on a match or any lit apparatus. The third factor was the circus's own firetrucks, which were normally stationed right outside the main tent during performances had been used to transport water to the animals and for some unexplained reason, had not been restaged around its perimeter. It was later revealed that miscommunication led to the trucks not being refilled with water and left at the animal enclosures. Also the tent was raised too far away from the available fire hydrants and the hoses could not reach it. They had to be attached to each other to form longer hoses, and by the time neighboring fire stations arrived to help, it was too late.

Witnesses said the tent went down in under ten minutes, killing men, women, children, and animals. Patrons and performers. Circus staff and first responders.

Jim heard someone walking down the hall and quickly folded the fresh copies in half and stuffed them in his upper jacket pocket before settling the file back down on the copier. Opening the door slowly, he checked both ways and, not seeing anyone, snuck out the office and back down the hall to the emergency room.

Harvey was sitting beside Barbara who was peacefully asleep.

"How are we going to move her without waking her?" he asked. Jim just shrugged.

"Did you get anything out of our mystery man?" Jim nodded his head in the direction of the indisposed man and placed his hands on his hips.

Harvey just shook his head. "No, not really. Just her name a few times. The word 'fire' and what sounded possibly like the word 'owl', but he was probably just moaning 'ouch'." Jim grunted and nodded his head again.

"But I did get this," Harvey said, holding up a piece of paper. On it was the phone number, written in Harvey's handwriting. "And I managed to swipe a look at a picture in his wallet . . ."

Jim pulled out the papers from his jacket.

"Did it happen to look like this?"

"That's the one, but does _it_ happen to have the words "Me and Cassandra" scrawled across the back of it?"


	65. Chapter 64

Chapter 64

Cassandra frowned.

"I'm going to hide," she whispered to Oswald as she climbed off his lap. "I want to hear what he tells you." Oswald nodded and she slipped into an inconspicuous spot, out of view. He did not know what Gordon wanted, but the investigation into the fire on Jeb Green's property was closed. Oswald would wait until Gordon brought it up.

"One moment, detective!" he shouted, kicking the discarded telephone behind a potted plant. He straightened his clothes, glanced back at Cassandra, and once she was settled, Oswald opened the door. Butch was there beside the detective and was clearly uncomfortable—kind of like someone who needed to pee immediately.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Cobblepot—I tried to call you . . ."

Oswald held up his hand and offered Butch a pained grinned. "No worries."

"See?" Gordon said to Butch. "He doesn't mind. Like I told you—old friends. You going to invite me in, Cobblepot?" Oswald thought about how that is what a vampire asks to get access to your home. "Well?"

Butch shifted his weight from one leg to the other. "Do you need me to stay?" he asked Oswald, not really wanting to and hoping he would say no.

Oswald rolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek and studied Gordon. "No. That will not be necessary. Come in, Jim Gordon. Your timing is impeccable."

"Is that so? Closing a deal?"

"Something like that. Not that it is any of your concern, but I was in the middle of a very important transaction. Exchange of goods, so to speak. What was it you wanted to tell me about Cassandra?"

"Is she around?"

"Well, I just married her, Jim. What do you think?" There was a pause and Oswald had a suspicion that the detective was refraining from making a smart aleck remark.

"It's just that I smell her perfume—or I am assuming it's her perfume." Gordon looked around the office.

"You might have noticed the gardenia on my desk." Oswald pointed to the flower. "I believe that is what you smell. It's my favorite flower. I have gotten into the habit of adorning all the rooms with them. How may I help you, detective?" He clasp his hands in front of him.

"I wanted to tell you that the man who tried to kidnap Cassandra is dead. I figured I owed you that. Jason Lennon. I shot him a few hours ago. Cassandra was not his only victim. He had a hostage."

Oswald broke out in an honest smile. "Why that is fantastic news indeed!" He beamed at the detective, holding out his hand. Gordon offered a grin that came off as genuine as a ninety-year-old man's ebony beard and accepted Oswald's handshake. "Thank you, from the bottom of my heart."

"I did not do it for you. I did it for the hostage, and the other victims—including Cassandra."

"Well, I appreciate it nonetheless," he countered, placing his hand over his heart. "You continue to make the streets of Gotham safe for all of us. Would you like some champagne? A piece of wedding cake, perhaps?"

"No. Thank you." Oswald could see it pained Gordon to be polite. "And there's something else . . ." Jim paused. "There is a man named Harold Allnut who may or may not have a particular interest in Cassandra—"

"Well, which is it, detective? Is he interested, or not?" Oswald fought every bone in his body to not look in Cassandra's direction.

Gordon unfolded a piece of paper and held it out to Oswald. "This is a picture of Harold Allnut. Do you recognize him or the child in this photo?"

Oswald kept his face stoic. He knew them both. Cassandra had photos hidden away in a shoebox, Polaroid memories of her life before the loss of her parents.

He knew the man. He knew his name. He knew the child. He was married to the woman.

He licked his lips and shook his head.

"No. I do not recognize them."

Gordon snorted. "You mean to tell me you just married a woman whose childhood pictures you have never seen? She doesn't resemble her? Just a little bit?"

Oswald felt heat develop in the back of his neck and he took a step toward the detective, wrinkling the paper that was still held out to him. He narrowed his eyes and asked Gordon sternly, "Do we have something to be afraid of here, detective? Is Cassandra in any danger from this man?" Oswald doubted that she needed to fear Allnut, but he knew she feared something. Maybe Allnut would be the key to finding out what that was.

Gordon refolded the copy and put it back in his pocket. "No, I don't think so, but Mr. Allnut is afraid of something, and it concerns a woman named Cassandra."

"I see, and in _all _of Gotham, you just assume it is _my_ Cassandra."

"I didn't realize you owned her, Cobblepot."

"People in love with each other, own each other, detective. Or perhaps you do not know what that is like. Pity."

_The truer statement is that she owns me_.

He continued to prod Gordon, "I wonder where the fault lies." It was a joy to watch the mixed emotions careen over Jim's face. Oswald feigned disinterest. "Where did you say this man was at this moment, Jim?"

"I didn't. He is in a hospital. Upstate."

"How did you discover this bit of information?"

"By accident." Gordon looked as comfortable as a doughnut at a police convention.

"Is he all right?" He asked this for Cassandra's sake. She had been fond of Harold.

"Physically he seems fine. Psychologically, I'm not so sure, which is why I wanted to put you on your guard. Probably not necessary though since he will be heading home tomorrow."

"And where, pray tell, is home?" He saw Gordon hesitate. "Oh, now, Jim, really? You gave me his name, told me much already, and since you are apprehensive about Cassandra's safety, as a cop and a concerned citizen . . ."

"Illinois, but I have kept you from your bride long enough. Congratulations on your marriage, Cobblepot." Jim made a hasty retreat to leave.

"Jim, Jim, Jim . . . when will you ever address me as _Oswald_?" Jim stopped and reluctantly turned around. Oswald liked it when he could make people do the exact opposite of which they had intended. He continued to goad the detective, "With _all_ we have been through—and you, _here_, at my wedding reception, warning me of supposed danger to my bride? Telling me you have . . . _dispensed_ _justice_ to the man who had tried to take her from me . . . Why, we are practically _brothers_."

"Yeah," remarked the detective. "Twins." Oswald laughed and Gordon lamented the fact that the one person who had found him funny was a creepy, power-hungry madman.

"Oh, Jim. You slay me. Truly," he placed his hand on the back of the man's arm and led him to the door. "I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your visit, and it would delight me to no end if you would partake of the refreshments. Dance. Mingle. And please . . . send my regards to Barbara."

The surprise on Jim's face was comical really, thought Oswald as he started to shut the door. Did Jim really think he was that much of an idiot? He had a way of finding out secrets and he knew that Barbara's parents lived upstate. Oswald also knew that only a desperate man, a man with something significant to lose, would have come at him the way he did when Gordon demanded the Foxglove invitation. He had obviously been at the upstate hospital as evidenced by the bandage around his hand. This led Oswald to conclude that the victim in the Jason "The Ogre" Lennon scenario was Babs.

Gordon stuck his foot in-between the door and the frame before Oswald could close it completely.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" he growled at the shorter man. Oswald opened the door wider and tilted his head. _Bingo_.

"Well, I just meant that it has been a while since our first meeting. I should like to introduce her to Cassandra. Wouldn't it be a hoot if they turned out to be best friends? We should all do lunch, that is, if there are no conflicting reasons why that might not be a wise idea."

Gordon did not answer right away. "Barbara and I broke up—though I don't know why I'm telling _you_ this."

"Ah, voila une telle tragedie. My heart goes out to you both. I, too, experienced misfortune of the tender kind, but happily that is no longer the case." Mostly he said this because he liked to hear himself speak French. He had already known Barbara and Jim were no longer together and that the detective was pursuing Leslie Thompkins.

Gordon eyed Oswald, turned on his heels, and stomped down the hallway. Oswald smirked and shut the door, locking it before singing to Cassandra: "Come out, come out, wherever you are . . ." Even though he knew full well where she hid.

"Who is _Barbara_?" she demanded. Oswald could not help but break into a wide smile. He really, _really_ liked it that she was jealous over him. Possessive even. Yes, he belonged to her. If only she could be convinced.

"_No one_ in my eyes, but someone who used to date Jim Gordon. Kean is her last name, owns and runs an art gallery. Apparently she was a victim in a violent attack tonight. One of the men that tried to kidnap you for Green."

"Oh, jeez. Is she okay? Was that the man that Jim said was dead?"

Oswald nodded and took her hand. "Yes, he is dead, and I believe Barbara is okay. Otherwise Jim would not made his little trip to visit us. Speaking of that—do we have reason to be concerned about Harold Allnut?" he asked her.

"No, he would never hurt me. He was my friend, even if it was for a short time. I never believed he was the one who set the fire. I think he was coaxed into confessing—or threatened. He was the one that saved me from a falling pole. At least that's what eyewitnesses said. It would have crushed me, but Harold is strong and surprisingly quick—even with his back deformity. I told you—I do not remember anything about that day."

"Mmmmmm," he hummed, embracing her and kissing her forehead. "I suppose you heard Jim Gordon say that Harold was afraid of something?" The thought in the back of Oswald's head, the one he was quietly trying to ignore, was that whatever Harold Allnut feared was the same thing that caused Cassandra to scream in her sleep.

It was not a dream nor an invented phantom that haunted her head. A real threat existed. One that had been seen. Not just by Cassandra, but by Harold too.

Cassandra stiffened in his arms. "Yes," she said, answering his inquiry. "And I know what you're thinking because I'm thinking it too."

He spoke into her hair. "What am I thinking?"

"That it is real. It's near. And that it is coming for me." Oswald did not respond. She continued, "I would not be surprised if Harold is trying to warn me."

Oswald darted his eyes around the dark corners of the office. He was not paranoid, he reminded himself, but Gotham was not made up of people, it was made up of animals, of which there was only two kinds—the ones that ate and the ones to be eaten. He would continue searching the environment for his prey as an eagle would hunt its target. That was always the wisest course of action. No matter how long it took.

Survival of the hungriest.

The cleverest.

The most patient.

The one with the sharpest skill, the strongest will.

"Oswald," said Cassandra.

"Yes, my love?"

She grinned to herself. "I want to kill it."

The corners of Oswald's lips curled upward, the deadly smirk of a flesh-craving creature. He ran his tongue over the edge of his top teeth.

Whatever his queen wanted, his queen got.


	66. Chapter 65

Chapter 65

Harold Allnut had been sneered at since the day he was born.

There had been very few people who had been kind to him. Cassandra had been one of those people.

The little kids who traveled with Haly's Circus were not afraid of him. They had never had the need to "grow accustom" to someone's physical appearance, a result of the various shapes and sizes of the circus staff having been the first people they had seen. As far as these children were concerned, Harold was no different from them—quieter, yes; a little bit lumpier, yes, but this made him fun to climb on as they tried to use the hump of his back as a slide.

The problem was the older kids from the city—his peers. They came to hang out at the circus grounds, flirting with the teenage girls and nosing about the place. On more than one occasion, he had spent a few hours picking the tobacco wads they had spit at him out of his hair and off his clothes. On some days, it was mud. On very bad days, it was manure.

Harold had been in Hub City for only a little while, having left Gotham at the age of fifteen. Although communicating had been difficult, he managed by writing notes or gesturing with his hands. He had not intended for Hub City to be his stomping ground, but circumstances had led him to stay. His conditions in Hub City far outshined what they had been in Gotham.

Still, the idea of Haly's Circus, right here where he now lived, was exciting! He had always been fascinated by the colors and spectacle the circus offered and, through his skill more than his words, had convinced Mr. Haly to hire him temporarily, utilizing his natural talent for construction and technology. Perhaps if his abilities proved to be worthy, Mr. Haly would offer him a permanent position. A place to feel needed and to truly belong. A place to call his home.

His short-lived stint with Haly's had been positive—something out of a dream for him. He was able to play with the animals, learn more about the pulleys and rigs, refine his knowledge of building by helping the older men, and sit with the technical director in his little trailer to learn how the different special effects were manipulated.

He especially loved the way the lighting would shine down on the horse trainer—the Equestrian Princess. At least, that is what the lavender-haired young woman was to him. She glistened like Christmas lights in greens, blues, reds, and yellows upon her white horse that pranced inside the boundary of the ring. That was his very favorite time. He knew she would never look at him the way he looked at her, so he remained an ever-silent, ever-distant admirer.

His other favorite time was spent with Cassandra, the eight-year-old child that had immediately claimed him as her playmate. She yammered on as they built toys out of copper and wires and, as she played dress up with him, she always—_always_!—placed white flower buds in his unruly red hair. She would ask him, nay _demand_, that he pick her up and bob her on his arm, making her "fly".

He taught her card games and they would place their bets using popcorn, and Cassandra although never ceasing to talk, somehow ate all her wagers. Harold thought it was a good thing he had trouble speaking. He would not have been able to get a word in anyways.

On days when he was really down, not feeling good about himself _at all_ due to a slight from the neighboring kids, Cassandra would pat him on the hand and say, "Don't worry, Harold, I see you as you really are." Usually, it was after the teenage girls made gagging noises behind his back or the older boys would rattle out mathematical problems for him to solve. He knew the answers immediately; he just could not say them fast enough before his tormentors were on to another equation for him to unravel.

His speech was limited and he had tried to gain the respect of the teenagers by stammering out how he had rescued the mayor of Hub City from the clutches of a killer, but in his excitement of recalling his exploit and the tangle of his nerves, his speech would worsen, causing spittle to fly from his mouth and the boys would taunt him further. Cassandra had fussed at them like a schoolmarm, shaking her finger at them. When the insults turned from flying projectiles to open-palm slaps, she spewed fire at them from her fingertips, courtesy of a device her father had fashioned and she had _borrowed_.

She had told Harold the device was just as much hers as it was her fathers, since she had help him build it. She had offered to show Harold how it worked, and together—once her father had discovered her pilfering and reclaimed his invention, fussing at her for playing with it out of his sight—they had built one of their own—a little cruder, but still, it had worked.

Unfortunately.

Harold did not like to think about that day, but he had to now. He had seen another creature. It was prudent that he find Cassandra before it was too late. Before there was more tragedy.

It had started out as an accident—the fire that day, but then he had seen what she had done. What this _child_ had done. He did not blame her. He understood she was acting on rage and vengeance, nay, righteous anger and justice.

The creature should have just gone away.

At first, Harold had thought that it was a new circus act. Somebody covered completely in a brown costume—including the face. Harold chortled to himself and made Cassandra giggle when he stammered that the person looked like something he cleaned up in the elephant's pin.

If it had not have been for the apparatuses attached to the person—its body the shape of a man—he would not have given the visitor a second look. Attached across the front of its chest was a leather strap running from the upper left shoulder down and around the right waist. Knives were cradled along the strap, and Harold guessed this newcomer might be someone added to the knife-throwing act, but he wondered how the man could see. The person wore goggles. The lenses were red.

He had heard them arguing, Cassandra's parents and this man-thing that hissed.

Cassandra had been rattling on to him about their newly crafted toy and she wanted to try it. When it was obvious Harold was not paying her any attention, Cassandra had tugged on his shirt, insisting he listen to her, and he had placed his finger to his lips, shushing her, as he knelt down. She had followed his gaze, peering into what was "the green room", a small canvas enclosure (also not really green) designated as an area where acts could wait before it was time for them to perform.

He had taken an instant dislike to the new entertainer. Dislike was actually a nicer word than how he felt for this newest addition to the circus.

Cassandra did not like him either. He was a threat, frightening her parents. Haly was there too and the argument was growing heated. This person was talking about her. _How dare he_! She knew he was dangerous and chose this moment to test their weapon. Before Harold could stop her, she had pressed the button.

The streams were longer than they had expected and not only caught the edge of the creature's cape on fire, but the sidewall of the main tent as well. The flame quickly spread upwards, racing its way to the top, lighting the canvas ceiling up like a torch. The creature spun, stomping on its cape to put the fire out, and saw Cassandra through the opening. Christina, Cassandra's mother, who was nearest to the creature, lunged at it, but took a blow to her temple and was knocked to the ground. She did not get back up. Her father attempted to defend his wife and child, but was met with three dangers to his heart. Haly cursed the creature, and tried to move Christina out of the burning room, but she was already dead. He noticed Cassandra and told her to get out.

But she wasn't listening. The mechanics in the arm piece could not take the heat and also caught on fire, burning Cassandra's sleeve and causing her to shriek in pain. Harold had pried the burning metal off Cassandra's arm, scorching his hands, and slung it away from her.

He had not paid attention.

It had landed inside the entrance of the green room, setting it ablaze around Cassandra's parents and making the man-thing in brown look like a demon from Hades. Cassandra's screams mingled with the blood-curdling wails of people and animals trapped within the growing pyre.

_Equestrian Princess_.

Harold later had been told that the horse trainer had died in the hospital, flaming liquid wax dripping down on everything under the big top. According to stricken eyewitnesses, people got stuck under the bleachers—bleachers that earlier Harold had insisted were unsafe due to their hasty setup—and threw their loved ones down from the top piers, only to watch them be crushed under the stampede to the exits. Others recanted seeing liquid fire drip down on helpless patrons and performers, reminding them of lava falling the sky. Animal chutes had become obstacles, preventing many from reaching an exit.

If the fire and wax and falling poles did not injure or kill, the animals did. Frightened lions attacking their trainers and anyone or anything unlucky enough to get their way. Elephants crushing any barrier in their paths. Some people being injured or knocked unconscious by panicked horses.

_The smell, the smell_ . . .

Cassandra grabbed at the dirt and tried to crawl to her parents, the creature blocking her path out of spite. He had prevented her from getting to them—to die with them. Harold grabbed her, not allowing her to go into the burning tent out of his concern for her, and held her as he scrambled backwards away from the fire. He felt like the hairs in his nose had disintegrated simply from the heat.

The burning canvas fell in on the man-thing in brown and they thought he was dead. When they saw him emerge out of the flames and smoke, Harold had told her to run, coughing as he pushed her off him and onto her feet. He was sure the man-thing would knife him too, but instead he walked passed Harold in the direction of Cassandra's flight. Harold took hold of the killer's cape, which the assassin easily shrugged off, leaving Harold sitting dumbfounded in a swirl of smoke, clutching the brown material.

His heartrate increased as he searched the sea of horrified witnesses, dazed burn victims, and escaped animals for Cassandra. In the distance, he heard sirens. People were shouting and the animals added their voices to the panicked chorus. Poles were charred and breaking into, collapsing into the center ring and bringing down more of the burning canvas upon the last of the remaining victims inside.

It had happened so quickly.

The big top was gone.

_Where was Cassandra_? Tears were streaming down his face from the shock of the event and the stinging caused by soot and smoke.

When he finally laid on eyes on the little girl again, she was standing near the rigged contraption that Harold had erected for the aerial rope dancers—a place they could warm up before they performed. He had equipped it so that human strength was not needed to lift the dancers into the air, using instead a cleverly designed system of pulleys and braces that allowed them to easily operate the device without needing to manually heave each other up.

Harold watched in horror as the man-thing stood before Cassandra underneath that device. She held something behind her back. The assailant laughed and hissed at her. They stared each other down like cowboys in the middle of town, neither showing signs of surrender.

She was _grinning_ at it.

The creature's mistake was moving towards the child. She pulled the rope and set the device in motion. The attacker's ankles were caught up, effectively entangling him upside-down within the flowing silk pieces and the coarse ropes, twisting him into a cocoon jail.

Like an insect caught by a spider.

Cassandra took a step forward, turned on the torch, held it in front of her mouth and blew—the flammable contents spewing from behind her lips igniting and landing in fiery droplets upon the creature and his silk prison. She did not move, but just stood there and watched it writhe and burn. Then, Harold noticed the contraption giving way and ran to scoop her away before the heavy poles crushed her. She dropped the torch in the process.

When the police and paramedics showed up, she would not utter a sound. She did not speak when her uncle came for her. He waited for a couple of days to make sure she was well enough to travel before making plans to leave Hub City. Cassandra's arm had been bandaged and there was talk of surgery to replace burned skin and diminish scars. She did not say a word for two days.

On the third day, Harold visited her at the hospital before she was set to go with her uncle. He had sat her down and told her the specter that had taken her voice had made a mistake, that it really wanted his, and that he was no longer going to talk at all, but that she was going to have to for him. She nodded, but still did not offer a peep, her mouth turn downward and firmly closed.

He watched her leave as he stood on the sidewalk outside the medical center, a wave of melancholia drowning him as she turned and waved goodbye. Just as she was to step into the taxi, she ran back to him for one last "flight" and wrapped her little arms around his neck as he set her back down. She patted his back and said, "I love you, Harold" before running off towards her uncle. She splayed her good hand on the window of the taxi and Harold waved to her, feeling as if he was losing his little sister.

It was the last time he had seen her.

From that day forward, Harold had resigned to _only_ communicate by writing, or typing, using phrases from books, and then eventually using sign language. He had been arrested that afternoon, after Cassandra had disappeared into the custody of her uncle. He had confessed to setting the fire, insisting it was an accident, but soon learned of the fickleness of the public.

One day Harold was a hero, the next a hated murderer.

He knew he would only stay locked up until he turned 18 and that his record would be expunged.

See, everyone thought Harold was stupid. But he was not.

Presently, he now waited with comfortable patience from his hospital bed for his breakfast. Someone had eaten his pudding from the night before.

He had enjoyed a deep sleep, courtesy of the shot he had received, he knew, and woke in the morning refreshed. The straps had been removed sometime in the early morning hours and he was peaceful again—more like the Harold the hospital staff was used to, and they chastised him to get off the streets and into someplace safe. In the past, they repeatedly had handed him the same cards with numbers and names on them—so many times, in fact, he had them memorized. Of course, that was before they had found the phone number already buried in his wallet, the one he was encouraged to carry in case he was hurt and could not call himself.

He knew his case worker was on her way to get him, but he had to get to Cassandra. He would get to Gotham without any interference from anyone. It was the only place he knew to start searching. He had to save her from the creature again. He had to warn her.

Nonchalantly, he excused himself to use the restroom before walking out the front door of the hospital.


	67. Chapter 66

Chapter 66

"Sit with me, my little chick-a-dee," Oswald said as he led Cassandra to the couch. He sat down and she immediately re-straddled him and he chuckled, resting his hands on her upper thighs—on the _outside _of her dress, _goodness and self-control help me_.

She was not going to make this easy and he was relishing every minute of it, the warmth from her radiating onto his—_ahem_—lap.

"If we are to kill this thing," he continued. "We need more information about it." He clasped his hands and placed them on his mouth, studying her, willing himself to concentrate on a solution to this approaching threat instead of thinking about the softness that buoyed underneath her bodice. Waiting for her to understand what he meant, hoping she would notice the newspaper at his side.

"I told you I do not remember anything about that day," she reiterated.

"No, not consciously—you do not. That is true."

"You want to hypnotize me?" she asked, rather sardonically. "Is this payback for your mother?" She leaned into him, her manner playful. "You want to hypnotize me to do scandalous things to you?" He bit his bottom lip.

"My dear, with you, I believe that strategy would be unnecessary, and, no, it's not payback and, no, I am not testing that on you," he said. "I know the paralysis and the knock-out gases work as they are supposed to, but I have yet to try that one. So, no. Besides, the hypnotic drug is only supposed to render the person (he almost said victim) helpless to following orders, not remembering real occurrences."

"We could use a doctor that specializes in regression techniques," she offered. Oswald considered this and rubbed his cheeks and chin. He was concerned about what else might be revealed if she went under. Would she possibly give away any of his secrets? He also did not like the idea of anyone getting into her head at all. To him it carried the same intimacy and vulnerability as sex, and if _anybody_ was getting _into anywhere_—it was going to be _him_. He shook his head no.

"That's not what I had in mind," he said.

"Well, then, why didn't you say so?" She shoved his shoulder.

"Because it may be more painful than hypnosis and take longer."

"The long con . . ." She rubbed the side of his face when he smiled up at her and nodded.

"Okay—so why would I agree to do it then?"

"Because it would involve only you and me." He wet his lips.

"You're suggesting talking me through the nightmares, aren't you?" He looked at her like an expectant puppy. "You do realize, however, you cannot do that through the night terrors. They are two different things."

"I will wake you from your petrified slumber if and when you scream and you tell me exactly what you see," he said. "I will record everything."

"I'm not sure it works that way and it could be dangerous."

"I know."

"For you."

"I know. That is what I was referring to as 'being more painful'."

She leered at him and he raised an eyebrow. "Maybe you should handcuff me or tie me up," she suggested. "You know, just to be safe."

"_I'm being serious here_!" Oswald yelled, truly angry. He sighed and let his hands fall back to her thighs. He was instantly sorry he had shouted at her, _but how could she not be in earnest_? "I would not ask—if you are not comfortable doing this—_you said you wanted to kill it_, and _I feel a sense of urgency_." He gripped her arms and gave her a little shake.

"Calm down," she said, cradling his face and speaking to him as if he were a frightened child. "We will do what we have to do. There is a rage building within me and I desperately want to kill this thing. It—_it tears at my psyche_." Her hands were gnarled into claws and she dug them into her hair. He watched her silently, waiting for her regain control and finish her thought. Her body relaxed as she lowered her hands. "But in reality? Is it real? Perhaps I've been overreacting, scared of my own mind. What if there really is not such a thing?"

"You know there is," he whispered. "And so does Harold Allnut." Cassandra leaned back and gazed around the room. Oswald could see she was considering something, but what was it? "There is also this," he continued, picking up the newspaper on the couch to his left and unfolded it for her to see one of the front page stories.

This year marked the twentieth anniversary of the Haly's Circus fire disaster, and the organization had been memorializing the victims of the tragedy with several tributes and an extra day of performances added throughout the year at no cost to patrons. Monday would be the last day performing outside of Metropolis. Tuesday, they would pack up and move on to the next city.

"I already saw that." She took the paper and examined the photo on the front. There were to be special services once they reached Hub City, but that was in a few more weeks.

"I believe it would behoove us to make an appearance before they begin dismantling the whole setup. Perhaps a walk among the grounds would jar your memories further."

She was silent. "Metropolis is too far away, and this is our honeymoon. I don't want this to disrupt our time together." Discarding the paper, she played with the buttons on his vest, and then the loosened tie that hung around his neck. He took her hands and leaned forward.

"Listen to me. You have an excellent basis now . . . with memories breaking to the surface—no matter how vague—revealing themselves to you through your dream. We must not let the momentum fade away. Do you agree?"

She nodded. "Yes, and I admit, I considered going, but the ferry _by itself_ would be a three-hour roundtrip. Plus I don't think I want to do it because I have no idea what to expect. But I can't go on living like this—screaming, afraid of the dark, checking over my shoulders for shadows. I don't want _you _living like that either, but I am also afraid I'll have a bad episode and ruin our honeymoon." She sighed with resignation. "Or scare you away."

"Nothing scares me," he lied. "Even if you completely break down or run around the circus ground screaming in hysterics, you would by no means ruin our honeymoon. I willingly take all of you—in sickness or in health, sane or entirely batty." She laughed. "Nothing can ruin our honeymoon," he said.

There was a knock and a twist of the knob. "Oswald?" Gertrude's voice was muffled through the door. "I am ready to go home now."

Without blinking, Oswald reiterated, "Nope. Nothing can ruin our honeymoon." The couple looked at each other with deliberate grins plastered to their faces. Cassandra nodded and scrunched up her lips. Oswald was grateful to see the humor in her eyes as she crawled off him.

He spoke in a lowered tone to Cassandra. "I feel like I should tell you something," he said softly. "I have made reservations for us at the best hotel in Gotham. We were originally to have arrived tonight, but because of the surprise reception, I told them we would be in tomorrow." He left out the part about it being tomorrow morning and that he had already telephoned once. He knew Cassandra would feel responsible if he told her that he was going to have to put it off now until the evening in lieu of their spontaneous trip.

He called to Gertrude, "One minute, Ma!" Looking back to Cassandra he said, "If you can put up with her for one more night, I promise, _for a week_ we will be locked away where the only person who will know where we are will be Gabe. Please, can you endure one more night?"

He was certain she would say "yes", but wanted to ask anyway.

"I took you for better or for worse and knew that your mother was a part of the package, and I would rather have you _and her_ than not have you _at all_." He kissed her on her mouth.

"Thank you," he breathed. "Coming, Mother."

Oswald was just as impatient as Cassandra was to consummate their marriage, even if he did not show it. He equated himself to the masters who composed the great operas. They are _great_ for a reason—the artists did not rush, did not take shortcuts or settle for less, but patiently created unspoiled pieces, refusing to settle for mediocracy, until those melodious works of art were exactly as their creators had envisioned . . _. intended_.

_Has it not been stated that the best things in life are worth waiting for_? Compare this to his magnificent libretto now being orchestrated among the crime lords of Gotham. It had been a measured journey—plotting his way to the top—placing each note in the appropriate place, every lyric where it would inspire the most fervent response. Look how glorious a cabaletta!

He applied that same tortuous patience to his desire for Cassandra. He wanted their first performance to be perfect—the setting, the ambience. Not only did Oswald crave applause from opening night, he wanted cries for an encore. He doubted he would get that with constant interruptions. Upon further reflection, he worried he might not get that at all.

He pushed these thoughts to the back of his mind. There were other matters at hand.

_Mother._

Once Gertrud was tucked into bed back in her apartment, Oswald made hot tea for Cassandra and himself. He walked back into the sitting area to find his fiancé flipping through an old photograph album. There were no good memories in there for Oswald, not until after it was just him and Gertrud. He rushed over and sat the cups and saucers on the table, the hot liquid spilling over the edges, and plopped down beside Cassandra, nearly landing in her lap. He reached for the book—

"These are . . ."

_My nightmares on paper, _he thought_. _Gateways to too many questions that he did not want her to ask. He attempted to take the album out of her hands, but she pulled it back into her lap.

"Oswald?" She was puzzled, and he was not sure how to explain his behavior.

That fear surfaced again. How much could he reveal before she was finally disgusted with him and left? He opened his mouth and all that came out was a grunt.

Cassandra held firm to the album. "These are representations of different parts of your life. I want to see all of you, where you came from . . ." She looked back into the book. "Who _are _these people?"

He pulled the photobook out of her hands and she reached for it again until they were tussling on the settee. He finally got her pinned underneath him, grasping one of her hands, the book at an angle impossible for her other hand to reach. They were nose to nose, both of them winded from their horseplay and grinning at each other like impish children who had a naughty secret.

Cassandra's hair was a hot mess. Its unruly waves reminded Oswald of the way that rays stream from the sun. He let the album fall to the floor with a thud and shoved it under the sofa before adjusting himself further down upon her, one of her legs securely locked around one of his.

Oswald's meticulous will was being chipped away by the second—_masterpieces be damned_!

Their antics had disturbed mother Gertrude and she came into the room, placing her hand over her heart and steadying herself as she reeled from this horrific calamity that was unfolding in her living room.

"Oswald! Really!"

Oswald scrambled off Cassandra and held his hands up to his mother, trying to appease her, insisting, "Ma, it's not what it looks like!'

It did not help matters when Cassandra called out behind him, "It's _exactly _what it looks like!" This earned her an exasperated look from Oswald, who tightened his mouth and widened his eyes at her. Gertrud sharply inhaled again.

"And on the loveseat!"

In a rare show of smartassedness towards his mom, Oswald responded, "That's _why_ they call it a loveseat." She gasped and started searching for something, muttering about needing her flyswatter to spank the hussy. "You disrespect me! In my house!" She settled on a broom and brandished it above her head. "You get out!"

Cassandra jumped up and yelled, "She is going to hit me with her transportation!" Oswald turned on her. His eyes sparkled but he spoke harshly.

"That's enough!"

"Hah!" shouted Gertrude in what was to be short-lived victory.

"That applies to you as well! If _she_ leaves, _I _leave!" he shouted, jerking the broom out of her hand. "My two favorite ladies, at each other's throats." He would have put the broom back, but he was afraid to remove himself as buffer between them. "_You_," he said, pointing to Cassandra. "Stop antagonizing her . . ."

Cassandra pointed to her chest. "_Me_?" Her eyes were ablaze.

_I am probably going to pay for that later, I am sure of it, _thought Oswald.

He turned to his mother. "And _you_," he said, pointing his finger. "_You_ are just being mean. I don't blame Cassandra for reacting the way she does."

_Good. That should smooth it over a little bit with Cassandra, but I do not think I will look at her just yet_. A cartoon picture flashed across his mind of a Martian chasing a rabbit. When Cassandra was mad, her eyes had the ability to do what that little alien's gun could do. Best avoid eye contact.

He continued to chastise his mother, "I am disappointed in you—behaving like a bully, calling her _names_." Actually, this was an ingrained part of her character and he knew it. He was just surprised that it was being directed toward someone of which he approved.

"I just . . ." he hung his head. "Perhaps we should go," he sighed, approaching Cassandra and offering her his hand. He still had the broom. Gertrud took a step toward them.

"No, wait. I go back to bed. It has been a long day—with the funeral and all." She could not help herself. Oswald rolled his eyes and looked to the ceiling, shaking his head and pursing his mouth. Cassandra could see his jaw tense.

He threw down the broom. Gertrude closed her eyes and muttered something unintelligible.

"Let's go," he said to Cassandra, pulling her behind him. Gertrud blocked their path.

"No, wait," she said again. "I will make it up to you, mmmm?" She petted him, lightly caressing his shoulder and the lapel on his jacket.

"Sure, Mom," he said. He had an idea. "Bake me a pie—no _two_ pies. One to enjoy with you, the other to take with us."

"Now?"

"No, _not now_. In the morning, and we will stay." He glanced down at Cassandra and squeezed her hand. She grinned at him and squeezed back.

She regarded the two of them through narrowed eyes. "All right then. But no _funny_ business. I am watching you. I hear _everything_. I know _everything_." She turned to return to her room, but then stopped and looked back at Oswald, pouting. "I don't feel well, dearest. Would you mind sitting up with me, in _my_ room, while I try to rest?"

"Of course, Mother," he said, ducking his head. "I will be there momentarily." She shuffled back into her room while Oswald led Cassandra into his bedroom. He had _so wanted_ to undo that bridal dress himself, and he shared his disappointment with Cassandra.

"Well," she said, smoothing down his labels. "After we return from Haly's, I will change back into this dress—as long you will change back into your tails."

"I believe that can be arranged," he whispered, holding on to her, his arms around her waist.

From the next room, they heard Gertrude wheeze out Oswald's name. Regretfully he let go of Cassandra. The gesture was getting old.

"On my way!" he called back, before spreading several of his tee shirts on the bed for Cassandra to choose from—the image of the last time Cassandra wore his clothing mercilessly invading his mind. "As soon as she falls asleep, I will come to you," he said. "I will leave the doors open and listen for you."

It was not long until he slipped back into his own room and shut the door. He stood there admiring Cassandra in the dim light, courtesy of the bulb in his closet. The covers were gathered around her waist and he grinned when he saw which shirt she had chosen. It was one with The Clash scrawled in red across the black material. Their music had helped him get through certain moments of his youth. He imagined the hem of the shirt was not much further down, and when he pulled back the blankets to slip underneath, he was pleased and distraught to see he was right.

He had a newfound appreciation for white lace.

If she had not sighed and rolled onto her side toward him, her body pressed against his after he settled in, Oswald might have held those blankets aloft all night, mesmerized by that delicate area and resisting the urge to place his lips on her bellybutton—the way he wanted to do months ago in her kitchen.

He groaned inwardly and pouted. He only had himself to blame. He had asked her to wait one more night and he was going to follow through with that plan.

Period.

He could do this.

_I can do this_, Oswald convinced himself, failing horribly at ignoring how wonderful it felt to encircle her with his arm and place his hand upon the bare flesh above the rim of her undergarment, slipping just the tip of his pinky underneath the elastic band, pretending it was an accident . . . knowing full well it was not. He kept repeating _one more night, one more night_ until he eventually fell asleep.

Oswald woke to smell of vanilla (it mixed deliciously with the floral gardenia) and did not want to get out of bed. He was comfortable in his cocoon of twisted silk sheets and warm Cassandra. His mother was going to tear into him, although _this time_, it really _was not_ what it _looked_ like.

_I cannot wait until it actually IS what it looks like_.

"Demon boy!" Gertrud's voice rose as he quietly exited his room, unkempt in his black pants and previously wrinkle-free shirt. His hair was disheveled and he rubbed his chin. He liked the look and feel of his face freshly shaven, he just hated the routine. But if he went unshaven, after three days, his face would itch so much, he would gladly scratch it off.

"I hope you slept well, too, Mother."

"What were you doing in there?" she growled.

"Sleeping."

"I told you _no funny business_!"

"There wasn't any."

Gertrud paused. "Why? Is she a prude? How dare she? She is not good enough for my Oswald! How am I going to get any grandbabies!"

_Grandbabies_?

"Mother, she is not a prude. Far from it actually," he chuckled.

"Ah ha!" she exclaimed as if she just discovered the cure for cancer. "I was right! Hussy!"

Oswald rubbed his temples and sighed, "Mother . . ."

He gave up and was grateful his mother retreated to the confinement of her bedroom before Cassandra emerged from his, although he felt guilty about feeling grateful. When it was evident that Gertrud was not coming out, Oswald yelled his appreciation for the baked goods through the door before leaving with Cassandra to take the second pie downstairs to the superintendent.

"I hope this meets with your approval," Oswald said, handing the pie to the man. "Your discretion has been appreciated." The old man tipped his head toward Cassandra.

"I look forward to enjoying this. Would you folks like to come in for a piece?"

"How kind of you to ask, but no thank you. Happily, we are just heading away for a tryst, which—by the way—we no longer need to keep secret."

The super scowled and leaned toward Cassandra. "He isn't taking you to anymore basements, is he?"

She motioned for him to come closer and whispered, "The basement was _my_ idea." The man straightened back up and addressed Oswald, "Whoa. You got yourself a wild one here."

Oswald beamed. "Don't I know it."

Oswald decided he liked driving when he wasn't busy scheming or actively dissecting someone. It was past mid-morning when they arrived back at the club, and after changing, he gave orders for his tux and Cassandra's dress to be cleaned and ready by the time they returned to the club to pick up their bags.

As Cassandra was freshening up, Oswald snuck a call to the hotel, letting them know it would be evening when they arrived. In the meantime, he grabbed the remote at the bar and turned on the TV. He was greeted with news that made the perfect wedding gift.

Maroni was attacking Falcone's businesses and henchmen. Soon there would be retaliation from the Roman. It was all coming together.

Oswald opened a bottle of champagne and sat at one the tables, laughing.


	68. Chapter 67

Chapter 67

Years had stealthily crept by since the Metro-Narrows Bridge had fallen into decay and disrepair, blocked off on either side by concrete barriers, orange cones, and blinking signs that informed citizens that the bridge was temporarily closed. Those warnings had been put up ten years ago, and now nearly all the lights from the "BRIDGE TEMPORARILY CLOSED" sign were burned out leaving the letters: BEMARE. Every time he looked at it, Oswald's mind inverted the M to a W.

The masses had eventually resigned themselves to using the ferry as transportation back and forth across the bay. There was still debate about whether it was quicker to drive to the mainland, passed Bludhaven, and down to the city and the outskirts of Metropolis or just take the ship to the other side.

Whenever Oswald needed to venture to the land across from Gotham, he always took the ferry. He liked the water, the lilt of the boat as it hit the breakers, the subtle whispers of mist upon his skin, that smell that somehow managed to linger somewhere between pureness and pollution hovering over the water, and the dollhouse miniatures of the cities that grew as the ferry zeroed in on their ports.

Observing the cities from that great distance, Oswald felt like Gulliver or one of the colossal gods from Greek mythology, only to be reminded he was nothing more than a grain of sand or a speck of stardust once he disembarked and roamed among the mammoth structures that decorated the streets. He would not, however, admit his frailty to anyone—he looked to the woman beside him—no matter how much he wanted to. Others depended on him, he had to stay strong. For himself, for them. No one was going to make him helpless or feel helpless again. He would tear the person's heart out with his teeth. Gladly. Then use leftover bone to pick the flesh from in between.

"This is my favorite part." Cassandra's voice brought him out of his musings. "Coming upon the city. I just love it. Makes me feel like I could conquer anything."

"Well, love does conquer all," he said, pulling her closer. She was securely nestled under his arm and pressed against his chest, his other hand balancing them by grasping the chilled railing. He inhaled the brisk air. Ah, how he adored the cold. If only it would snow more.

Gabe had chauffeured them in the black SUV and was currently driving down the ramp and onto the street that circled Metropolis. The circus was set on the other side of the city, and the couple enjoyed the ride, peering out the windows to admire the shiny steel buildings. The sun reflected off the skyscrapers in such a manner that the city looked deliriously happy.

"It's not even overcast here," Cassandra remarked. "How is that possible?"

Oswald grinned. She had a point. It was always dark and drizzly in Gotham and bright and sunshiny in Metropolis. Made him wonder if Gotham was cursed. He shrugged, not caring. He preferred the grey sky to the blue sky any day.

As they neared the big top, the familiar strains of "Entrance of the Gladiators" danced upon the air, increasing in volume as they entered the $5 parking area. The grass had turned yellow from the number of days in which vehicles had parked upon it, and Oswald suspected that once the circus moved out, there would be scattered patches of dead grass dotting the meadow. The only area in Metropolis that had been denied sunlight was a place where cheerfulness and hope was sold to a joy-starved audience as they treaded over a dying field.

But everything dies eventually.

"Cassandra?" The party turned to face a man with fine wrinkles along his forehead and in-between his brows, indicating he had obviously frowned a lot, and touches of gray around his hairline. Oswald tightened his grip on her hand, but refrained from interfering, watching with interest as Cassandra's face shuffled through a handful of expressions. She took a step forward without letting go of him and Gabe stepped with her, mirroring her movement. Just in case.

"Haly?"

His hand flew up to his mouth as he inhaled and instant tears formed in his eyes. "It's been so long," he said, his hands quivering. He made to reach for her, but Gabe held out his arm. She touched the bodyguard and told him it was okay, still clasping firm to Oswald's hand as she and Haly hugged each other. She stepped back and introduced Oswald and Gabe to the circus owner.

"I . . . I have something for you," he motioned for them to follow him and he led them to the "back yard" where his living quarters were located. "I've been saving it. Kept it. Kind of had the impression your uncle wanted you to have nothing to do with the circus after that day." He stopped in his tracks. "Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "That sounded so callous."

Cassandra shook her head. "Nothing of the sort. I like it when people don't beat around the bush."

"How have you been?" Haly asked. "How _is_ your uncle?" He escorted them inside his trailer and rummaged around his desk drawer before removing a copper box. Oswald studied the surroundings, taking in the posters tacked here and there, and wagered a guess that the aroma of stale popcorn was permanently ingrained within the furniture and baseboard walls.

"He recently passed."

Haly regarded her with sad eyes. "Please accept my condolences. He was a fine person."

"Indeed he was," agreed Oswald. Haly nodded and pulled a key out of the box and handed it to Cassandra before going into a backroom he used for storage and dragged out a chest that had been kept hidden under costumes, shoes, and boxes of clown makeup.

This scenario brought back memories for both Cassandra and Oswald. She raised a brow to him and he tilted his head with a sly grin, shrugging and slowly blinking his eyes once.

"Everything in here," he stated, indicating the chest. "Belonged to your parents. Your uncle wanted me to trash all their things, but I didn't. I kept it. I suspected you might be back some day. It just didn't seem right to discard their belongings or give it away." He was lost briefly in a memory, but shook himself back to the present. "Anyway, I will let you have some privacy, but don't go anywhere. I know there is plenty of folks who will want to see you."

"Haly, this is where you live, we can take this outside," said Cassandra. He waved her offer away.

"Nonsense," he replied. "I _live_ out there," he said, pointing out the door. "I only sleep _here_." He smiled at them and walked down the wooden stairs.

Oswald turned to Gabe and requested he give them some privacy. "That is, if it's all right that I stay," he said to Cassandra.

"Yes, of course." She held up the key. "Who knows what mysteries we shall uncover." Oswald was on pins and needles. He was experiencing that same excited anticipation he felt as a kid when observing a hatchling escape from its shell. He hoped that Cassandra would be able to emerge from here a free person.

So much more to discover about her. His elation spun into guilt remembering he had chosen the night before not to share his familial history with her.

But the wrestling had been fun.

Oswald sighed and watched Cassandra fiddle with the lock. Is she opening up Pandora's Box or a chest of treasures? Before he could share his reservations, she had removed the lock and heaved open the lid.

Inside were clothes, leather journals, loose papers, and various pieces of costume jewelry and household trinkets. Oswald stood on the sideline like a grade schooler waiting to be picked for a team (he never was). She beamed up at him and his heart skipped a beat.

_I still cannot fathom the miracle of her choosing me_.

She took his hand to pull him over. "Let me get you a chair," she said, rising and disappearing out the door before he could stop her. She returned with a modest but sturdy wooden chair and sat it down for him while she returned to her spot on the floor. He thought it a breakthrough that she knew exactly where to go to obtain the seat.

Among the tokens in the chest—which had also belonged to her parents—were several hats, both men's and women's. Oswald pulled out a bowler hat and placed it on his head. It fit.

"How do I look?" he asked.

"Very dapper," she said. "You should definitely keep that—it's yours."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, try this one on too." She pulled out a black satin top hat.

"I think I am required to have a mustache when I wear this one," he said to her. He liked it that she laughed.

"You could grow a villain 'stache," she said. "One with the curly ends." She demonstrated by twisting the invisible mustache above her mouth. "Oh, no, wait—here." She handed him a fake mustache, still sticky with aged glue and he put it on, the corners refusing to adhere to his skin. She held up a mirror that had been buried under the pile.

"Look at me!" he exclaimed. "I am a cartoon villain!" He was having a good time.

"Here, try this." She handed him something gold and glass.

"A monocle?" He placed it over his left eye and regarded his image in the mirror. Not bad. Distinguished even. Although he could not see out of it.

"It's you," she said.

Oswald lowered the mirror to his lap. "Now we have to find _you_."

They dug around the chest and flipped through the journals. One contained the costume designs drawn by her mother and another had the blueprints and instructions on how to build her father's devices—she stared at the page that featured what looked like a layered brass glove that fit up to the elbow. Fire was supposed to shoot from the fingertips.

Oswald watched her. _I know it is important._

Other than that, there was nothing specific, at least not anything obvious. There were also several fire-making/fire-eating tools and programs and posters featuring her father.

They had finished emptying the chest and were just starting to refill it when Cassandra asked Oswald if he noticed that the depth of the chest on the inside did not measure up to its outside dimensions, but maybe she was mistaken.

She was not.

They both fished around in the floor of the trunk until they figured out how to remove the false bottom to reveal a hiding place and another journal. There was nothing else there.

"Oswald!" Cassandra shouted, when she allowed the book to fall open to the page most visited.

Upon that rough paper was a charcoal pencil sketch of a design for a costume, only it did not look anything like the ones her mother had an affinity for designing—ones with color and dazzle. This one was plain brown, kind of ugly really, with a strap of daggers across the chest and goggles for eyes.

"This is the creature from my dream!" She held the page directly in front of his face. "_This is what is chasing me_!"


	69. Chapter 68

Chapter 68

Haly wrung his hands as he exited his trailer and looked to the sky. He half-expected a winged, long-fanged creature to plummet to earth and take possession of Cassandra, killing anyone who stood in its way. He did not want her to stay too long. The circus was set to move out tomorrow. One more day, then he would be far enough away from Gotham for a season. Give her the meager property of her parents, and whatever befalls her, befalls her.

He disregarded the guilt that nagged at him. _Ignore it. There is nothing you can do_.

She had the papers. They were in the trunk, although the statute may have run out on the insurance. But it is hers now, she has it, and he does not have to worry about it. Unless she decides to sue. Then he will have to remind her who started the fire.

It had never made sense to him that Christina's brother, Cassandra's uncle, had never claimed the money. Maybe he knew too who _really_ caused that disaster.

Such a small thing she had been, but fierce—strong-willed, wild with fairness, mouthy. Haly was not sure if she had been a brave kid or a foolish one, watching her from day to day—building incendiary weapons and tricks, standing up to bullies twice her age and two-times her girth, playing with fire as if it was much a part of her as her blood or hair.

He wondered if she was the same, or if the years and the loss had changed her into someone completely different. _Did she regret letting Harold Allnut take the blame_? It had been out of character for the child. _Had she had known the mute had done this for her—never pointed the finger in her direction_? _How could she live with it_? _With any of it_?

Of course, he had never said anything either. He let an innocent young man go to jail. Haly sighed and closed his eyes. He was a coward. But what was he to do? Point a finger at an "innocent" child? Who would believe that?

_Innocent. Hmph. Maybe The Court was right. Maybe Cassandra was a natural-born killer_.

Only they had not been able to mold her into the shape they wanted. Not yet. But it was coming. Haly knew it was coming.

And now she was with _Cobblepot_? Oh, yes, he knew who he was. The whole damn Court knew who _he_ was, and boy did they _hate him_. Did Cassandra have any clue about his background and his bond to Gotham?

Then Haly had another thought—perhaps she was already under their tutelage. Perhaps the time had already come. Had she any inkling that The Court despised the man on whose arm she clung, loathed his entire lineage? Pithy grudges. Did Cobblepot have any idea the danger he was in if she belonged to The Court and not to him?

Is that how they will use her too? Manipulate her to take their revenge on the self-conscious, awkward man? Paying her back for her actions on that day? Both of them caught up in a war that has been raging for years. _Cobblepot. Anders. Wayne. Kane. Gates. Elliot_.

Haly rubbed his forehead and shook away the thoughts. _She was only eight or nine when the circus fire happened. Of course, she would not understand what was going on at the time. The creature was not there to hurt her or her parents. Would they hold that against a child? _Haley knew the unfortunate answer to that._ She had only wanted to protect her mom and dad, and maybe even me_, he thought._ It had been an accident after all._

_Well, the initial fire had been. _

What he had seen her do next was deliberate, and yet—his heart had rebelled against The Court at that moment, against what they continue even now to call _Gotham's common good_—cheering for what she had done. Amazed that a little girl had taken down their messenger.

_I suppose that is what adrenaline and hate can do for you_.

The image of a female child came to his mind, her brunette hair dancing around her face from the heat of the flames, a lit torch at her side, a wicked grin upon her face, and the creature as it twisted. It did not scream. Why didn't it scream?

He could still smell it burning.

The pie car was just ahead, but it was nearly empty—the circus in full swing, now mostly inhabited by the rail hands finishing up a late lunch. Haly nodded at them as they stepped out and he hopped up onto the stairs that led to his car—the quarters he used when the train was in motion. He liked living in the trailer when the circus train was not in motion. It gave him comfort, like a child's blanket, although he did appreciate the carved mahogany furniture and the dark wood paneling of the train's apartment—which did not stink of decades-old popcorn.

It was the middle of the day, but Haly needed something to settle his nerves. Cassandra's visit had come out of the blue, and he was completely unprepared. His mind raced. Did they know Cassandra was here? That Cobblepot was here? He peeked out the window. Were they being watched by the predators _right now_?

He pulled a bottle from the cabinet. The shot of liquor helped him. Two shots was even better.

Some of the effects belonging to Cassandra's parents had been salvageable, but most of her family's things had been destroyed by the smoke and fire.

Haly scratched his head and listened to the band play the beginning bars to "Over the Waves". It was the cue for the Grayson family to begin their trapeze show.

The one tune Haly _never_ wanted to hear again was "Stars and Stripes Forever"—a standard in the circus industry to be performed when there is an emergency. The band had begun to play it on that fateful day until the musicians finally had to abandon their posts to save their lives. Most of them did. Some had displayed heroism, helping those they could to avoid a fiery death. They _had saved_ others that day—but were unable to save themselves. The musicians who did not make it were now buried at Showman's Rest in Illinois, along with the other performers and staff of Haly's Circus that had perished that day, joining so many others that had taken their final bows before and since the tragedy.

_Rest in Peace_. He raised another glassful and then poured it down the sink. Even those in the afterlife deserved a pinch of alcohol every now and then. _Spirits for the spirits_.

He hoped they did not mind the shared glass.

_Go away, Cassandra_. Although he had told her to wait, that others would want to see her, he just wanted her to go away. Now. No one was safe while she was here.

He rinsed out the shot glass and hung his head, gripping the contour of the counter until his knuckles turned white. When he looked up, he did not like what he saw—a despondent image of a broken man mirrored in the glass door of the cabinet.

_That's me . . . but it isn't. _He wondered how he, his family, and the Norton brothers—and countless others—had become entangled in this trap. Powerless.

_What have you become, Haly_?

"Don't answer that," he said to his reflection before walking out the door.


	70. Chapter 69

Chapter 69

Oswald narrowed his eyes as he stared at the sketch. He had a bloodlust. It had been almost_ three whole days_ since he had personally killed anybody, and now this _thing_ had a form, had a presence, and the threat of its existence stirred the heat in his veins. He now had a visual of the haint, and he wanted to rip the creature apart with his bare hands. He would like the mushy feel of fat and flesh squished in between his fingers.

"Listen to this poem," Cassandra said, reading from the beginning pages of the journal. "_Beware The Court of Owls that watches all the time, ruling Gotham from a shadowed perch, behind granite and lime. They watch you at your hearth, they watch you in your bed. Speak not a whispered word about them, or they'll send the Talon for your head." _

She raised her head and barely acknowledged Oswald when he said, "I understood the poem to be a legend—told to misbehaving children and around campfires at Halloween. May I?" He held out his hand and she deposited the book in his upturned palm. "What are you thinking?" he asked.

"I always felt like I was being watched. My uncle never let me go anywhere on my own—kind of like you." This earned her a smile from Oswald. "At least he tried. I snuck out a lot—I was on my own more often than he thought."

"Seems I can relate very well to your uncle," he replied with a good-natured snicker. "_Now_ will you listen to me? Will you promise to never venture out alone?"

"No."

"_Dammit, Cassandra_. You are no longer a teenager shimmying out of her window at night to indulge in—" He stopped midsentence, leaning back and twiddling his fingers on his hips. "Where did you go? Where you meeting someone of the male persuasion?"

"Why? You going to kill them if I tell you I was?" He tightened his mouth and jutted out his chin. "I wasn't meeting any boys. I wasn't like that." Oswald seemed satisfied with her answer. He really needed to control his jealousy—real or imagined.

He continued, "This is a pernicious matter in which we find ourselves embroiled."

"You don't need to tell _me _that—_I_ am the one being hunted!"

"And with you—me," he quietly said. Cassandra slumped. She approached him and moved the journal, sitting in his lap. He leaned into her as she wrapped one arm around him and kissed his forehead, her hand in his hair. Her touch sent goose pimples down his spine.

"Seems like we are too dangerous for each other," she said.

"Or too dangerous _together_ for _others_," he countered. "Do not go out alone."

"Oh, _please_," she chuckled. "Like you aren't already tracking me through the phone or have spies quietly following me at a distance."

Oswald opened his mouth to respond, but thought better of it. Particularly since she was right. Then he said, "_I _don't go out alone."

"Wait a minute," she frowned, changing the subject. "You've heard this poem before?"

He nodded. His brothers used to frighten him mercilessly with it.

"I wonder why I have never heard of it," she said.

Outside Haly was speaking with Gabe.

Cassandra hopped off Oswald's lap, to his dismay. "Do not mention this journal to Haly," she whispered. "It was hidden for a reason."

He nodded and she hurriedly replaced the journal in the bottom of the trunk, hiding it under the secret panel. She and Oswald threw everything back on top and had just locked the trunk when Haly walked into the trailer. They stood side by side in front of the chest, looking like guilty children.

Haly was too relaxed at this point to notice and hinted that they may want head out to not miss the next ferry back to Gotham, before dusk fell. Gabe had entered behind Haly and stood near the doorway to the backroom.

"It's a shame you really can't stay longer. But . . ." Haly did not finish his sentence, instead waving his hands in the air as if they could interpret the rest of his thought. "I'll find some muscle to move this trunk for you." Oswald was not sure whether or not to be offended. He was stronger than he looked. But he did not want to carry the trunk anyway, so . . .

Haly headed back to the front door and leaned out, shouting to a teenage boy as he ran by. "Calvin! Hey, Calvin! Get Joe and Strongman, would you? I've got a trunk that needs carrying!"

"Oh, _I _can do it, Mr. Haly!" Came the response in typical teenage boy bravado.

"No! That's not necessary—" The young man entered into the trailer squeezing past a protesting Haly. Calvin entered the room and eyed the trunk before testing its weight. He grinned shyly at Cassandra. "Well, maybe I _can't_ carry it, but I _sure could_ _escap_e from it! I'll go get somebody, Mr. Haly!" The boy ran back out as fast as he had run in, his cape twirling behind him.

Oswald sensed Cassandra stiffen and she grabbed his hand, turning her body completely sideways to look at him. He looked down at her and frowned, shaking his head. "What's wrong?" he whispered, the index cards shuffling in his mind. He went over names, words, places, objects. Objects. Cassandra had reacted when the boy turned his back to them. Oswald looked like a light had just gone off above his head.

Cassandra looked to Haly who suddenly had the air of a man who wished he was someplace else. "Where did that boy get that cape?"

Haly rubbed the back of his neck and would not turn around.

"Haly?"

Gabe moved as if to throttle the man, but Oswald motioned with his hand for him to stop.

"Nathaniel," said Cassandra. He turned around.

"Harold Allnut had wrapped that cape around you until the medics and police arrived. We kept it. How could you have let that young man take the blame for something you did?"

That's when Cassandra's legs went out from under her. She fought not to pass out as her head started swimming and her vision blurred. Suddenly every sound was muffled, like she was hearing everything from underwater.

"I've got you. I won't let you fall." She looked at Oswald's mouth and nodded, steadying herself and allowing him to lower her to the trunk, sitting beside her and balancing her against his body.

Oswald's face was hard and after the initial shock of Haly's words, his eyes went cold as he turned them on the circus owner. Through gritted teeth he asked him, "What did you just say? Think well before answering."

Haly burrowed his brows and looked to Oswald. "You mean she doesn't remember?"

Oswald growled back. "Convenient for you, isn't it?"

"I'm not lying, it's true." He wiped his hand across his face and looked at Gabe. "Cassandra?"

"Tell me everything," she sputtered. "They can hear." She gestured to Gabe and Oswald, placing her hand on the latter's chest.

"It _really was_ an accident, Cassandra, but I lost so much that year."

"I lost my parents!" she shot back.

Haly nodded and held up his hands before gently saying, "So did a lot of people. Parents. Friends. Children." Oswald watched as all the blood drained from Cassandra's face.

"So you are saying I killed my parents. I killed 200 people."

"_No_," said Oswald. "How do we know that what you say is true?" His eyes still bore into Haly.

"Harold was there," said Haly.

"Well, of course _he_ would say he did not do it," spat Oswald.

"He didn't!"

"Well, _I_ didn't do it!" shouted Cassandra, completely unsure.

"Mr. Haly, unless you can produce another witness, this is just _poppycock_!" Oswald's nostrils were flaring and he considered this might be a good day to spill some blood.

"Oswald," Cassandra whispered. "Don't kill him."

Haly sighed. "I am afraid—no actually _plum-butt terrified_ that there is another witness that could back my words."

"Who?" Cassandra asked.

"Not who, but what," he hesitated. "The owner of that cape."

"Calvin? He is a kid."

"No, the original owner." There was silence and Haly took a step forward. So did Gabe. "After you set the creature on fire . . ."

This time Cassandra sprang to her feet. "I did _what_?" Oswald jumped up beside her.

"Now calm down," implored Haly. "That's not the part to get upset about—"

"That is a lie! Everything you have been saying is a lie! What are you hiding, Haly?" Her voice was cracking.

If Haly had owned a white flag, he would be waving it right about now. "What we need to be concerned with is that right after I saw what you did and Harold pulled you to safety . . ." He wrung his hands and looked at her in earnest.

"Cassandra, it wasn't there. The thing you burned. I thought it was dead too. That I would come upon its burning corpse under that pile of wood and melted cloth, but it was gone. I had only looked away for a second, but it was gone. Now I think that it's best that you should be gone too. All of you."

"Consider it an act of benevolence that I don't slit your throat right now," hissed Oswald, as Joe and Strongman entered the trailer. Cassandra did not recognize them.

"Gentleman!" Haly put on his best ringmaster act. "If you would not mind carrying this trunk to wherever these fine people are parked and escorting them off the property, I would be ever so grateful."

Gabe led the way with Haly heading up the rear behind Cassandra and Oswald. "Hold up," they heard Haly say. Around them kids were running around with balloons tied to their wrists, the aroma of hot dogs and funnel cakes drifted upon the air, and carnival music played from under the main tent.

"I'm sorry you found out this way. I did not realize you had forgotten. Can't say I blame you. There are days when I wish I could block it out too."

"Not another word," said Oswald. Cassandra held her hand up.

"No, I need to hear what he has to say," she said.

"If there is one thing I ask you to believe it is this—no, two things. First, it was an accident. A tragic accident, but an accident nonetheless. The second is, they—_it_ is still out there. Stay alert. Watch your back." He glanced at Oswald. "Each other's back."

"Watch yours as well," said Oswald. He took Cassandra's hand and they marched back across the dying grass to the black SUV.

"I always do," muttered Haly to himself. "I always do."


	71. Chapter 70

Chapter 70

The truth of the matter was that Cassandra's memory was starting to return in bits and pieces. She subconsciously rubbed her right arm. Oswald took notice.

"Are you cold?"

Cassandra shook her head _no_. A few minutes later, she rubbed it again.

"Does your arm hurt?" Oswald asked her. She shook her head. She had not spoken since they had boarded the ferry and she sat on one of the benches overlooking the water. Oswald sat beside her with his arm draped protectively across her back and shoulders. She basked in that.

Oswald placed his nose on her temple and murmured into her ear. She closed her eyes. "Haly does not have a clue what he is talking about. He just wants to be a storyteller—making it up along the way. Lying to save his sorry hide. That's the entertainment business for you. His head is _so full_ of fantasies and he is surrounded by people whose _job it is_ to deceive." He tried to make light of the situation.

"What if he's not lying? What if he's telling the truth? What if I did what he said I did?"

"Stop worrying about his unfounded theories. He is mad, loony, _completely lost it_. What _we_ need to concentrate on is this _costumed freak_ who is not brave enough to show his face, coming after you for whatever nefarious reason. That is what _we_ do. The journal is the key. It holds the answers. Along with that brain of yours." He placed the tip of his finger against her forehead.

"You said I was not a killer, but what if I am?" she asked him. He looked befuddled.

"I do not perceive a problem with that." He truly did not. Cassandra could see that fact on his face, hear it in his voice.

"_Innocent people_, Oswald, including my parents." She could have sworn she saw his eye twitch when she said "parents". He removed his arm from her shoulders and took both her hands in his.

"_If _Haly is telling the truth, and _if_—and I am saying _if_ you started the fire, Haly said it was _an accident_. Not malicious. Not on purpose. There is a difference. I do not presume that I need to explain that to you."

"But how can I live with it, Oswald?" Her voice was just above a whisper. "All those people, all that suffering. Even the animals."

"You were eight."

"And then he accused me of letting Harold take the blame. Harold _confessed_. I never believed him, but still he confessed to it."

"That's on Harold."

"Haly said I set that creature on fire."

"If that is true—I am proud of you. You did what you had to do to survive. Nothing wrong with that. You were a wee moppet—a child. You killed something that was a threat. Do not show weakness for that decision. Do not feel guilt. Not a drop. Ever."

She offered him a lop-sided grin. "I don't. Not for _that_."

Oswald titled his head. "So then you _do _remember?" Cassandra shook her head as if to clear it. A litany of familiar sensations bubbled up within her chest.

Control. Hatred. Power. Glee. "I cannot remember the actual incident, I cannot _see_ it, but I can _feel_ it. It feels . . . it makes me feel _powerful_—it's intoxicating and I _like_ it." She saw the fire in Oswald's eyes. _Blue is the hottest part of the flame_.

"Yesss," he breathed. "When one finally takes control, unleashes well-deserved justice—the knowledge of being the person who is pulling the strings, can be . . . as you said . . . _intoxicating_."

She laughed, throwing back her head and felt Oswald's fingertips briefly butterfly their way down her neck. "Why need liquor . . ." she said, pausing as Oswald finished her thought.

"Or drugs," he said, passing his fingers lightly across her lips.

Cassandra continued. "When one has . . ."

"Power," they said in unison, as he grabbed the back of her head and pulled her face to his, locking her in place against his mouth. She did not resist.

She peered at him through half-closed eyes, delighting in his freckles and pale skin. Her lower lip brushed against the course hair on his chin and she indulged in its roughness, raking her mouth across the hairs again and eliciting a sigh from Oswald. She soaked up the warmth from his body as the wind continued to gain momentum, threatening to pull her hair from her scalp and whipping Oswald's red scarf fiercely around them. She held on tight in case she might be lifted from him and carried out to sea.

She did not want to think about a tragedy she may or may not have been responsible for causing. She could accept the speculation that she set that wraith-like creature on fire. Liked the idea, even—as long as it had been a threat. She must have done that, because the feeling that she was experiencing now was stronger than mere deja-vu, but did that mean she did the other things Haly accused her of doing?

She wanted to escape into Oswald and not think of anything at all. Not her parents. Not a phantom. Not Harold or Haly. Not 200 people that she may have led to their deaths. Just block it all out. Continue to block it all out. She only wanted to think about Oswald, lose herself under his gaze and touch. Savor caressing him.

Cassandra hugged Oswald closer.

She wanted to forget that she was a much worse person than what Oswald believed, convinced that he had an overly optimistic, inflated view of who she was—he had, after all, mentioned in his letter that he placed her upon a pedestal. Granted, he had gone on to write that it was not fair for him to do so.

But she had always known there was something not quite right about her. Something off.

_Be quiet brain_.

Cassandra tightened her hold on Oswald and squeezed her eyes shut, feeling one of his hands climb higher up her back and the other further around her waist to press her nearer.

She suspected Oswald looked upon her as Pygmalion looked upon his Stepford statue, the fabled Galatea, perfection brought to life. This is the image she suspected Oswald had formed, a persona of her that he had created in his own mind, someone better than who she was. Cassandra would just go on pretending that she was worth something. Accept the fairytale as real for a little bit. Always on guard for its "The End".

_Happily ever after_. She scoffed at the sentiment. That was meant for the good girls. The perfect princesses. _Gag, by the way_.

How could she expect Oswald to lower his defenses to her when she could not do it for him?

That was why sometimes it was just easier to resort to overtly amorous displays of affection as a deterrent for having to remove barriers that would expose her true nature to him. Distract him from trying to delve any further into who she was. Since she was not fond of herself—how could she expect _him_ to be fond of her for the rest of his life? Most of the time, she just wanted to touch him, bury her nose in the curve of his neck, be near to him or do something for him. Protect and defend him. She knew he needed that sometimes.

There was also the written-in-solid-stone-and-sealed-with-a-kiss fact that she was insanely attracted to him—and it was not just the physical aspect that had set her neck on fire (and other places) the first time she had seen him, but something about the way he carried himself. If anyone thought Oswald looked like an easy target, that person was not looking close enough. Her advice to anyone foolish enough to come after him would be, walk away now while you still have all your parts. This made her chuckle and he pulled back to look at her.

He smiled. "What?"

"I just cannot wait to get you to the hotel," she said.

He blinked rapidly a few times. She did just _say_ that, _did she not_? With the rush of the wind and the swish of the waves, he was not really sure of what he had heard.

"I love you." He heard her say _that._

"I love you too."

"Even if I did these things?"

He stared her, frustrated, his mouth agape. How could he convince her that he loved her? No matter what she had done or not done. Although a part of him reveled at the idea that she may have been the instigator of such calamity, especially if she had snuffed out the creature's life with said eerie calmness and cool resolve. He would be relieved because she would then be tainted, like him, yet ever still above him, and always better than him.

Oswald was immediately sorry he had thought such things; Cassandra was fraught with the idea that she may have caused so much suffering to those against whom she held no grudge. He hated admitting that he feared if she was not as equally depraved as he was, she would stop loving him. You know, the usual run-of-the-mill, completely normal romantic anxieties perfectly sane couples experience and work through like healthy adults.

Why could she not see that he was devoted to her? It was driving him mad, _making_ him mad. He wanted to shake her, hold her, slap her, protect her, make love to her, make her strong, make her see that _she was strong already_. He needed her strength if they were to survive together. They were in this as one and any weakness could destroy them.

He ignored the blatant truth that _she_ was _his_ weakness. Mythological Eros (you brat) and Aphrodite (you wicked woman) had on a whim looked down and made him their fool. _Yet I am grateful. A grateful fool indeed. Thank you, thank you, thank you, _he offered to deities in which he did not believe.

Oswald wanted to establish a million gardens in honor of Cassandra, filled with nothing but variants of gardenia. He wanted to slay dragons and bring her their gold. He wanted to defeat armies and lay their treasures at her feet. He wanted to take her to the highest building or mountaintop and tell her it was hers, it was all hers.

_He_ was hers (a laughable gift), if she wanted him. For an eternity.

Dear all light and goodness and mercy, let her want him.

Forever.

He had yearned for her since the day he saw her, had wished (upon so many fallen stars) for her before he had met her. Yet, it was _she_ who inquired of _him_ if _he_ could still love _her_, even if she had done these things. How had he come to be here? Reassuring a diamond that this piece of coal loved her.

He wanted to wax a sonnet fantastic, braid words together to profess his deepest regard, perform a monologue draped with utterances of longing and total devotion, but all Oswald could muster was a solid, "Yes".

From the look on her face, that one word seemed to be all she needed.

_Screw it if anyone is watching_, Oswald thought. He moved in to claim her lips again, inhaling sharply through his nose to welcome her flowery aroma and the metallic scent of the damp air. He liked the combination of the chilled mist that crept along his fingers and up his trouser legs as it mixed with the heat from Cassandra's body pressed against his chest and her arms encircling his shoulders. The sting from her hair slapping his cheeks was sublime. He gripped Cassandra's coat—little beads of water sitting daintily on top—and worked his way to her neck, dry and warm, shivers running the course of his body from her nearness and the cold that permeated his wool coat. He heard her throaty response and felt her fingers dig into the material. _She will likely scream in a minute if I do not stop_. This time he chuckled and looked up at her before capturing her tongue again.

She broke the kiss to caress his face, her eyes traveling over his features.

_What does she see_? _For what does she search_?

Her eyes cleared (reminding Oswald of a field of blue wild flowers pushing the fog off their petals) as they moved from his bangs flipping across his forehead to his nose, then cheeks, to his mouth. He was afraid she would gaze at him for too long and discover all his imperfections, defects that he was sure she would come to despise over time. He felt himself starting to blush under her scrutiny and her eyes softened. _She sees it_, he thought, willing his face to go pale. The struggle only caused him to turn a shade pinker.

"I just want to disappear in you," she murmured breathlessly.

He was at a loss for words, which was no problem since she was back on his mouth.

_In me, on me, around me—whatever you want_, he mused. _Just as long as it is not completely. I need you _with_ me._


	72. Chapter 71

Chapter 71

Back in his club and changed into his tuxedo, Oswald fidgeted at the bar, chewing mints, folding napkins into origami birds, spinning a shot glass on its edge, and then flipping on the television, keeping it muted since the band was playing a cool jazz number that sent his veins buzzing. He propped his arms upon the bar and then immediately removed them when he felt sticky residue upon his hands. That was unacceptable and he snapped his fingers to call the bartender over and demanded he wipe down the surface again. _And use soap this time_!

A patron laughed too loudly and dropped her drink, the glass shattering as it hit the floor. Oswald glared at her before glancing back up at the television where a split picture of Carmine Falcone and Sal Maroni shared a space in the upper corner of the screen.

Oswald unmuted the set so he could hear what the excitable reporter was saying. _Poor thing_, he thought as he grimaced at her shellacked hair and the fact that it was not blowing in the wind. At all. _What would she have done if I had not created an attention-grabbing, ratings-secured story for her_?_ Bless her heart _(a colloquialism he had learned from Cassandra),_ I hope she does not wet her pants_. This made him think of Maroni and he narrowed his eyes at the man's photograph.

_You will get yours, Maroni_.

He grinned when he saw the "shocking" images of lifeless Maroni and Falcone thugs—or the correct news copy was "respected businessmen"—splayed dead within the "frequented establishments" that dotted Gotham City, their bodies blurred out to protect the public from "disturbing images" or some such nonsense. After a breathtaking Q&amp;A between the anchor and the reporter that involved much salivating (really, the media is like Pavlov's dogs at the words "murder" or "mayhem"), they cut to a commercial and Oswald silenced the television again. He paid little attention to the other headlines as they tickertaped across the bottom of the screen—partially because they were obscured by the captions—briefly catching the words "Janice Porter", "mayor", "missing person", and "Jeb Green". His mind was elsewhere.

He started to order a glass of champagne, but thought better of it since he was driving and they had not eaten since before they boarded the ferry to Metropolis. Gabe would not be chauffeuring them, although Oswald had sent him ahead with the bags and to inspect the room. Oswald had made sure there would be a never-ending supply of the bubbly where Cassandra and he were heading and Gabe had called to reassure him that the champagne was chilled and the strawberries were dipped in _milk chocolate_ (Cassandra hated dark chocolate—too bitter). There was not any need to send up dinner to the room, at least not right away—Cassandra had said that she was hungry, but it was not for food. _Yay me_!

Oswald had wanted to stay with her upstairs while she changed, but Cassandra had insisted on doing it the old-fashioned way, which in retrospect was a _fantastic_ idea because he may have hindered her in putting the bridal dress back on (_or anything else, for that matter_!). She had reminded Oswald that it was _he_ who had wanted everything done according to his perfected plan—one that he had taken such prudence and care in orchestrating. His will was withering away. She took up the reins and told him she knew he would regret it, having come this far, to go against what he had intended from the start. Cassandra played heroine to his hapless, desire-driven victim.

Right now he was feeling excited, but with a tinge of regret, having wished he had just acted upon his baser instinct when he was a boarder in her farmhouse. How many nights had he tiptoed to her bedroom door, pushed it open and stared at her while she slept, guilty in the fact that he _wanted _her to have a night terror just so he could slip into her bed and put his arms around her. She scared the dickens out of him every time she had one, and his heart broke at her plight, _truly_, but to say that he was _merely fond _of how those intermittent episodes worked to his advantage—how that recurring shadowed nightmare had allowed him to be so intimately near to her—was an understatement.

Oswald rubbed his palms over his thighs and loosened his collar with his finger when he saw Cassandra descending the stairs. The bar stool tittered a little when he stood, and he backed up against it to make it stop.

_Play it cool. Play it cool_.

Doing his best to imitate Cary Grant, he approached her coyly and gave an ungainly spin as she reached the bottom of the staircase, his satiny tails spreading like wings upon a gentle tornado. He raised a brow and fiddled with his cufflinks. "Cobblepot. Oswald Cobblepot," he said and was rewarded by her amused laugh.

She stood on the bottom stair and took hold of his lapels, leaning into him. "How is it that you are prettier than me?" she asked.

"Not in a million years," came his response as he shook his head. "You by far put every goddess and countless sunsets and gardens to shame. Nothing and no one surpasses you. Sincerely," he placed his hand over his heart and nodded, taking a step back to admire her form from head to toe. "You are breathtaking. I am spellbound." He accepted the kiss she offered him and, then, holding one of her hands above her head asked her to spin for him. She complied and his gazed spread over her like warm honey on an oven-fresh croissant. He licked his lips and drew her close. "Ready?"

She gave him an Eskimo kiss and grinned. "Did you _really_ just asked me that?"

A semi smirk crept across his face. "I am just granting you your last reprieve, in case you seek to reverse your decision. It is a life sentence you know."

"Thank goodness," she responded. "And, I will not be changing my mind—not in a million years," she said, echoing his words.

He was Atlas; he could carry the world on his shoulders. He was Samson; he could tear a lion in half. He was . . . he was . . .

He was Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot—the rightful king of Gotham. He could . . . would . . . _does_ . . . rule the city.

"Did you bring the journal?" he ask her.

"Of course," came her reply as she patted the sheeny white purse that was hanging from her shoulder. "And, if we are not too busy, we _may_ just get a chance to read it." She sparkled at him and took his hand, leading him out of the club and into the vehicle which was already running and heated, Butch standing guard.

Oswald enjoyed the view from behind—her dark hair contrasting against her white attire. Cassandra's veil, held by pearl combs in her hair and being the length of her dress, called to Oswald's mind the illusion of a semi-transparent cape. The course material got caught up in the wind and tickled his wrist.

She did not see his indebted, exultant grin. For a moment, forgetting the heartache of childhood and the pain of adulthood, Oswald thought, _I am the most blessed man that ever lived_.

When she placed her hand on the inside of his upper thigh after he had settled into his seat, he was certain he would not make it to the room.

"Drive, lover," she told him.


	73. Chapter 72

Chapter 72

The hotel was old, but elegant, having been one of the longest-running hotels in Gotham that received scheduled renovations throughout the years while managing to retain the aesthetics of a bygone era. It was classy, but efficient, with hints of a timelessness that firmly planted its feet in the modern age while scoffing at attempts to have its past wrenched from its spirit. Here was a mixture of antiquated décor blended with innovative design that preserved heritage and tradition while offering the latest in technological and frivolous amenities to her guests.

One has heard the poem encouraging readers to "not go gentle into that good night". This hotel lived by that phrase, not going gently into that good future without wearing her finest family heirlooms. She demanded the best and gave it as well, which is why only the cream of the crop had the audacity and the means to recline under her roof.

Cassandra was sufficiently in awe of the high-rise and Oswald puffed up with pride as he led her through the lobby and up to their room. Since they were alone in the elevator, Oswald remarked that maybe Cassandra ought to have a positive experience in a lift and leaned in to snog her, but the doors opened to their floor.

When they reached their accommodations, Oswald insisted on carrying her over the threshold in the correct fashion—he retrieved the skeleton key from his pocket then swept Cassandra up the proper way. She encircled his neck with her arms, and planted a kiss on his cheek as he wrestled with getting the key into the lock. She proceeded to undo his bowtie, which fell unceremoniously to the plush hallway carpet, and ran her tongue up and down his neck. He dropped the key and attempted to retrieve it by bending over.

"Do you need to put me down?" Cassandra asked, giggling. She was trying to hold on to him as he tipped over, but she was slipping.

"No. Nope, I got it. Got you," insisted Oswald, trying to hide the fact he was gritting his teeth in pain as he leaned down. He was grateful to be putting all of their weight on his good leg. "Almost got it." He fumbled around underneath her coat, the veil, and fabric from her dress that hid the key and shift his foot to remain balanced. "Ah ha! I've got it!"

He started to straighten, but something hindered him from pulling Cassandra back up with him. It felt like he was stuck.

"Ow!" Cassandra exclaimed and with one hand grabbed the top of her head. "It's my veil! It's caught on something!"

"It's me—sorry—I'm standing on it. Wait . . ." He removed his shiny, black leather-patented toe from the material, only to watch the veil fall to the floor. "I'll get it." He started to bend down again, but Cassandra stopped him.

"No! Just leave it! I unfastened it." She flung her arm back around Oswald and began nibbling on his neck. He growled and, with much fumbling, attempted to get the key into the lock. It made a clicking noise right before getting stuck. He jiggled the latch, but the blooming thing would not budge.

Cassandra continued to feast on Oswald as she worked her way up to behind his ear. He whimpered. The moisture from her mouth left a wet trail that cooled when her breath met it and he could only imagine what else she might do with her tongue. As if in answer, Cassandra claimed his earlobe and began to suck on it. Oswald considered kicking down the door, but then there would be the problem of not having a door.

He stopped grappling with the key and stepped back, took a deep breath, and then very calmly approached it, turned it, heard another click and removed it, easily opening the door and using his back to shut it behind him.

He set Cassandra down and pressed her against the door, throwing the key to the hall table where it promptly slid across the polished surface and fell off, and continued kissing her.

"How do you do, Mrs. Cobblepot?" he asked her, a smile in his kiss, freeing her from her coat and letting it fall to the floor.

"Now that I am married to you, Mr. Cobblepot, I do quite well," she smile-kissed Oswald in return.

He backed into the room taking Cassandra with him as she worked him out of his wool coat. He lapped his way down her neck like a thirsty pup and she started laughing.

_Any moment now, she will cry out._ He knew it would take a few trips up and down and around that neck before the tickling sensation would pass. In the meantime, he enjoyed the sound of her and the way her body vibrated against his when she laughed and the pressure from her fingers digging into his back.

"Would you like some champagne?" he asked her, coming up for air. He had wanted to impress her, had planned it all but . . . . _Please let her say_ no.

"No," she said, moving her hands over his shoulders, then down to his chest to unloosen his jacket before working on the clasps of his vest.

"Strawberries?" _Say _nope, _Cassandra. Say_ nope, nope, nope.

"Nope." He watched as she concentrated on opening his vest, sticking her tongue out to rest on her lower lip_. _

_I wonder if that helps_, he thought as he fiddled with the fasteners on the back of her dress without any luck. He had broken into vaults with four-foot thick reinforced concrete and steel doors, combinations of deadbolts and punch button locks, buildings with heavily-armed guards and vicious dogs, and all of them had been easier to get into than this dress.

"Would you like a serving of _me_?" he asked lowly, his voice rolling over his vocal cords the way distant thunder undulates over darkened clouds.

"You guessed it, husband." Oswald's eyes lit up at her enthusiasm and the sound of his recently bestowed title.

"Exuberantly granted, wife." He rejoiced in the victory that he could finally refer to her as his. Unequivocally, irrevocably his.

She pushed his jacket and vest down simultaneously and the material became entangled around his arms. She tried to liberate him.

"Oh . . . damn," said Cassandra studying the situation.

"Wha—am I stuck?" Oswald had a hazy look in his eyes that was quickly dissipated when she said she may just have to leave him tied up. He licked and then bit his lower lip.

"No, that's not happening," she said. "I want your hands on me." There was a rumble in the back of Oswald's throat. Cassandra heard it and applied a moist kiss to his Adam's apple before eventually wrangling him out of the jacket and vest, her mouth glued again to his.

She had unbuttoned the top few buttons on his shirt, when she suddenly pulled her face off his and asked, "Do you like this shirt?"

"What?" He felt her hands grasping the inside edges of his shirt, the diamond ring pressing into his chest.

"_Do you like this shirt_?" she repeated rather desperately.

It dawned on him why she was asking and he heartily declared, "_No! I hate it!_" But, before he could finish answering, she had torn open the front, buttons flying everywhere, clacking against the furniture and making soft thuds upon the carpet.

Oswald gasped and let out a surprised laugh. Cassandra understood this to be approval and shoved him back against the wall where he lost his footing and started to slide to the floor. She reached for him, catching him and sliding the rest of the way down with him. "I have you. Are you okay?"

He grinned at her and replied, "I should probably tell you: _I hate these pants as well_!" She laughed and straddled him—minding his damaged leg—and unbuckled the belt before removing it with gusto and brandishing it above her head. She doubled it and pulled on the leather until it made a slapping noise. She paused still holding the belt aloft.

"Maybe later," she said, throwing it aside.

_My word, I am not sure if I should be afraid or excited, _he thought. He stopped thinking when she undid the clasp and zipper on his trousers _with her teeth_ and proceeded to work her way down his legs taking his pants with her. She paused when she reached his feet, changing her position so that her backside was to him—careful not to put her weight on his right leg—as she removed his shoes, then his socks, before coquettishly glancing over her shoulder at him and wiggling her butt. Oswald reached for her, but she was on her feet too soon, offering him her hand.

Following her lead, he took it and she raised him up, proceeding to deposit lingering wet kisses on his chest, and rake her fingers through his hair from the nape of his neck to the crown before slowly moving to stand behind him. Her light touch tickled him and caused every goose pimple that had ever been born to spring up across Oswald's body. Cassandra snaked her hands around his waist, one traveling upwards to fondle his chest and the other traveling downwards into his boxer briefs.

He jerked slightly when Cassandra's fingertips touched him and moaned while she explored his length. She continued to press into him from behind while stroking him with her lower hand, grinding her hips against him until both of them were moving in unison in a circular motion. He reached back to grasp her outer thighs gathering the crinolines in his hands until he felt her flesh. For once he was glad he bit his nails because the way he was digging into her to skin would have otherwise drawn blood.

Cassandra shifted her focus to his wrists where she removed his cufflinks in one deft motion that even Oswald was convinced required magic of some kind. Their fingers intertwined while she proceeded to twirl her tongue at the base of his neck.

He let out a whine when she stopped moving her hips, having paused to lift his shirt from his lower back, where she continued to lavish kisses upon his pale flesh before straightening up to remove his shirt from his shoulders. She worked the material down his back and arms, burrowing her face against him while teasing him with her tongue along the way.

When she reached his buttocks, she jerked the final constraints of his shirt over his wrists and proceeded to bite his ass a few times on each cheek. Oswald inhaled in surprise and cried out, very much delighted with her fervor. He yelped again when, after slinging his clothing to the side, she slithered her hands back to the package in front, while she remained on her knees, electing to nip at his backside again. Oswald's head—the one above his neck—felt fuzzy.

"We have a little problem," Oswald managed to say, his mouth was dry and his voice had gone down an octave. Cassandra stood but did not remove her hands, kneading and rubbing all the fascinating components of her new favorite toy. Oswald was content to be her present, but he wanted a gift too.

Cassandra had not fully caught his words. "What was that, lover?" she asked him.

Oswald cleared his throat and spoke with mustered force. "_We have a little problem_."

"Oh, it's _not _little," she said.

Oswald chuckled. "Thank you."

"Oh, no—_thank you_," she responded, laughing and nuzzling her nose against his spine. "What is the problem?" she asked.

"You are still dressed," he said, turning to face her.

"I hope you have a solution," Cassandra purred as she sauntered away from him and to the dresser where she placed her hands on its counter, her back towards him. She caught his eyes in the mirror.

"_Undress me, gypsy boy_!" she yelled.

He would ask her later why she called him that. Busy now. Oswald made a move for her just when there was a knock at the door.

"_Ignore it_!" Cassandra ordered. Oswald did as she commanded and fumbled with the buttons on the back of her dress, having no luck undoing them. The pest on the other side of the door was incessant and the rapping continued.

Oswald unevenly stomped towards the disruptive noise, scooping up and flinging on Cassandra's coat, as it was the only thing he saw at the last minute with which to cover himself. Its pearly iridescent ruffles stood regally around his neck. Tying it with the dainty sash helped to conceal his true state of mind, but not completely. Glancing towards his lower regions, Oswald decided it would have to do. He squinted through the peephole. It was the concierge he had spoken with in advance regarding preparations. Oswald had tolerated him. People who smile too much are not to be trusted. He threw open the door.

"_What_!"

A cheery male wearing a burgundy hotel uniform, complete with a porter's cap, held up Cassandra's bridal veil. He smiled broadly, not reacting to the state of Oswald's demeanor or attire.

"Hi, I hope I didn't disturb you, but does this belong to you?"

"Yes!" Oswald barked and grabbed it out of the perky employee's hand before slamming the door in his face. He turned to go back to Cassandra when there was another knock. Oswald spun around and threw the door open again, breathing heavily.

"_What_?" he yelled. Nonplussed, the employee grinned at Oswald and smugly dangled a black bow tie in Oswald's face. Oswald grabbed it and slammed the door.

There was more knocking.

Oswald reached for his knife and realized he had on Cassandra's coat instead of his, and rolled his eyes in a fit of frustration and impatience. He rushed over to where his coat had been abandoned and dug out the knife before huffing back to answer the door. In route, he heard Cassandra say, "Don't kill him, Oswald. And, also, you look beautiful."

The employee held up a "Do Not Disturb" sign.

"Thought you might be wanting this," he grinned. Oswald jerked it out of his hand and tried to place it on the door knob several times.

The concierge held his hands behind his back and rocked on his feet. "May I help you, sir?"

If Oswald had been a dragon, he would have breathed fire at the man, but then he remembered he had Cassandra for that.

With the sign finally secured, Oswald held up the knife up in the overly happy male idiot's face as a final warning.

"Thank. You . . ." Oswald said quietly before calmly shutting the door and locking _every. single. lock. available_, and slid the knife into the coat's pocket.

Cassandra had turned and was leaning back on the dresser and made a point of licking her lips when Oswald came around the corner. She immediately grabbed him, dragging him over and untied the sash at his waist, running one finger from his the middle of his chest to the top of the elastic on his underwear. She lightly ran her fingertip along its brim (Oswald thought he would explode), her eyes lingering on the front of his boxer briefs.

"You are an impressive man, Mr. Cobblepot," she breathed. He grabbed her by her hair, tightening his fingers around the silky curls and wrapped his other arm around her waist pulling her to himself and working his hand down to her buttocks to squeeze one of her cheeks through the beaded fabric. He broke away spinning her around and tried again to unbutton her dress.

Cassandra watched his every move in the mirror and understood the frustration on his face because she was experiencing the same thing. She watched his features change as his forehead relaxed as if he had just experienced a _eureka_! moment. He retrieved his knife from the coat and held it up in the mirror for her to see.

_Click._ The steel blade gleamed.

She wiggled her eyebrows and her body.

"_Do you like this dress_?" he asked her. He did not have to repeat himself.

"_Hate it_!"

Oswald began plucking off the buttons with the tip of the blade, beginning with the ones nearer to her waist. The first one popped off and ricocheted off the space between his eyes.

Cassandra gasped. "Are you okay? We can try a different way if—"

"Nope. Nope. This way is good," he managed to squeak out.

With every dispatched button, Cassandra let out a cry of encouragement, cheering him on until Oswald was shaking so badly with want that he abandoned undoing the buttons one-by-one and cut through the rest of the bodice with a single upward thrust of his knife and then spun her around, throwing the blade across the room, getting it stuck in the wall. He hoisted Cassandra up on the dresser and wasted no time shoving the dress down her torso and maneuvering it over her butt and hips and slinging it somewhere behind him, while she stripped him of her coat with zeal.

He swooped in to her neck again and she threw back her head and laughed as he dined on her, working his way down to the warm spot between her breasts, which were hidden behind a snug corset. He exhaled and nuzzled his face into her bosom before straightening up to admire her, slowly running his hands over her curves, down to her waist and back up again. He examined the corset and felt like an explorer on a quest, another level to conquer. He exhaled as he considered this new trial.

Stepping up to the challenge, he gingerly reached out and grasped the shiny white ribbon in the center, pulling it until the bow released itself. He continued to unlace her corset without hurry while she ran her toes behind his calves and her legs up and down his thighs, a bead of sweat lining his upper lip as the rush of sensations and images collided, his senses bickering about what to pay attention to first. The last of the ribbon fell away and her corset collapsed behind her.

_Is this really happening_?

With one arm around her, Oswald glanced up at Cassandra before lowering his head to explore this new territory with his _entire face_, engulfing as much as he could of one breast into his mouth, while cupping her unattended one with his long fingers so that it would know it was appreciated and would not be ignored. He took pleasure its weight and suppleness.

Cassandra sighed, wrapped her legs around his hips and leaned her head back, resting on her arms that were extended behind her. Oswald felt the soft tease of her hair as it lightly cascaded over his knuckles. He breathed her in, filling his head with her musky sweet scent.

"Put your arms around me," he gently ordered.

She did and he lifted her, gladly ignoring the pain in his right leg, it was so worth it, and turned towards the bed, but one of Cassandra's heels got stuck in the dresser handle drop pull, knocking them off balance and almost sending them to the floor. She reached down to free her foot and threw her shoe across the room, while wiggling out of the other one. Her liveliness against him as she squirmed caused him to hiss and he deposited them both on the bed in a rough, ungraceful collapse, him landing on top of her.

"I'm sorry, are you okay?" he whispered. She barely growled _yes_, grabbing the back of his head and forcing him into a wet warm kiss. He worked his way down the rest of her body, taking his time removing barriers and exploring with his tongue and fingers. When she stammered his name, he journeyed back upwards and kissed her deeply on her mouth.

There was still the matter of his briefs to be resolved, when he instantly felt her toes clasp the elastic waist of his underwear and pull them down over his buttocks and thighs in one graceful, quick flourish. He looked at her in amused surprise.

"You inspire me," she explained, blushing.

He smiled and proceeded to shimmy them off the rest of the way.

"I brought us something," he said huskily as he peered at her from under heavy eyelids. He reached down to pop open one of the suitcases, its contents spilling out. Cassandra twisted to get a better look, and had to inch over to the edge, with Oswald gladly following on top, to peer over the side of the bed. She laughed. There were several boxes of condoms of all sizes and manner of friction.

"I was unsure of which one to acquire," he admitted, offering a sheepish laugh. One side of the suitcase held five boxes of condoms, the other, three. "I really did not want our consummation to involve a barrier, but everything happened so fast . . ."

"Well," she said, looking at him sideways like a little minx. Her lips were swollen and bruised from their trying to remove each other's tonsils with their tongues and he could not wait to take her into his mouth again. She turned her head. "Let's see what we have here."

While her attention was elsewhere, Oswald took this moment to gape at her. This allowed himself to unabashedly admire her face and the way her hair fell across the pillow, framing her delicious features. He already had her face memorized, but applauded whenever he could just stare at her without her knowing it. Ogling Cassandra had long been a hobby and he was very skilled at it.

"So we can exclude this whole side of the suitcase," she pronounced, indicating the five boxes that were a mix of sizes marked 'REGULAR' and 'SMALL'. Oswald suddenly became quite bashful.

Cassandra stretched to grab one of the other three—a black box with gold letters—and opened the package removing a gold-foiled square. She could not open it, not even using her teeth. Oswald held out his hand and she gave it to him. He sat up, and after a couple of tugs, threw it over his shoulder and grabbed a fresh packet. This one opened easily and he held up the freed prophylactic in victory. Cassandra clapped and while Oswald played with the sheath, she propped herself up and read the bold print on the front of the box.

"I do not think these 'JUMBO' will be big enough for you."

Oswald lost hold of the condom. It snapped out of his fingers and hit Cassandra in the eye.

_Oh, crap_!_ That did NOT just happen_! Oswald was appalled and immediately took hold of her.

"_Oh my G_—are you okay? I am _so sorry_!" He hugged her and rubbed the side of her arms, before taking her face in his hands to inspect her eye.

"Yeah, I am okay . . ." Suddenly she stopped and stared at him. "It's burning—it's starting _to burn_!" She hopped off the bed and he scrambled behind her into the bathroom where she rinsed her eye with water and he patted her dry, repeating the process a couple of times. It was bloodshot.

"Do _not_ put that on yourself," she said emphatically. "I cannot imagine what it would do to you. Will you get the eye drops out of my case?"

"Of course." Oswald felt like a heel and cursed himself under his breath. This was not going as smoothly as he had hoped. He could not believe he had just hurt her. _Maladroit oaf._ But, maybe it was a good thing—it would not have been advantageous for either of them to have had a painful reaction in the midst of . . . when he turned, she was lying back upon the bed.

_Venus. You are Venus. Venus is not Venus_.

Cassandra had no idea the thoughts that played around in his brain as she asked him to put the drops in for her. He hesitated, afraid he would lose hold of the bottle and smack her in eye with it, while at the same time his mind being clouded by the peripheral vision of her seductive form.

"Oswald?" His hand shook as he squeezed the suggested three drops in her eye, and sighed with relief when he was finished and could safely sit the bottle away from her body.

"Does it hurt? Are you all right?" His face was anxious, his brows furrowed.

She grinned and patted Oswald's hand. "I am fine. The burning has stopped." She gazed at him with one eye closed. She looked like she was winking. "It will be a story we can tell our grandchildren. When they are 101 years old."

Oswald's face brightened. "Grandchildren?"

Her saying that made it real for him. He was married. Someone loved him. Promised to stay with him, _wanted_ to be with him.

_Chose him_.

He saw a future where at least a part of his life would not constantly revolve around him deceiving people. He hoped, ignoring that nagging despair that knew otherwise.

Then he wondered how he would keep them all safe. And, did he even want kids? He had never seriously considered it before because after years of rejection, he had never thought anyone would fancy him. _Would I be a good father_? _How could I be a father_? _Do I want to be a father_? Then he started panicking.

"What is it?" she asked him. He closed his eyes and shook his head. Cassandra sat up. "I'm okay," she reassured him, touching his arm. "It doesn't even hurt."

"It is not that," he said, then realizing his faux pas, backtracked. "I mean, I am mortified that this happened to you. That _I _did this to you." He touched the side of her face which housed the injured eye, inspecting it again. "I wanted to _impress and pleasure _you," his face flushed with the use of the word 'pleasure', "—not _blind _you. I had it so perfectly planned . . ." He gestured to the strawberries and champagne, picked up a condom box and let it fall haphazardly to the bed.

"_Heeeey_ . . . lovely man, I'm having the _best _time," she said. Oswald snorted and looked at her with a countenance that screamed _I-doubt-that-and-if-you-expect-me-to-believe-it-you-are-crazy_. Cassandra threw up her hands and exclaimed, "I _am _having fun! And, all of your planning is fantastic! Look! I'm going to eat a strawberry." She crawled off the bed and Oswald relished the sight of her bare bottom swaying from side to side as she approached the cart. She had dimples. Made him think her bottom was smiling at him. He could not help but silently chortle and smile back, digging his teeth into his lower lip.

"See? What's a little blindness to interrupt the mood—_which I'm always IN, by-the-way_," she teased, leaning toward him. "You might want to write that down." He chuckled at her, and she continued, "Mmmmm . . . these are really sweet." She grinned at him and started swaying her lower body back and forth. "Want a bite?"

Oswald sucked in his cheeks as he grinned and nodded his head. She brought him a chocolate-dipped strawberry and climbed into his lap, running the morsel across his bottom lip. He viciously bit into the fruit, some of the juice escaping to the corners of his mouth and dribbling down his chin. Cassandra stopped its trickle with her tongue and sat back to look at him.

"But that is not all that is bothering you," she prodded.

He inwardly chastised himself, rubbing his hand across his face and then through his hair. A little piece rebelled and stood up like an Alfalfa hair-don't from _The Little Rascals_. Cassandra kept trying to smooth it down and he closed his eyes, his hand finding her navel and lingering there. She gave up on the hair and sat there looking at him. He did not remove his hand from her lower belly.

_All the times I wanted to kiss her bellybutton, and here I am, not doing it_. _Dolt_.

"Do you not want to have children?" she asked.

He opened his eyes, grateful that most times she could read him. Saved him the horror of having to initiate what was bothering him.

"I do not know how to be a father," he admitted. "I did not have a very good example." Cassandra was silent in response, choosing instead to hug him and rub his back. "And besides," he continued, "I worry constantly about you, about Mother . . . if I have to worry about one more person, I am going to have a heart attack." He went on. "My childhood was _awful_!" He turned his head so that his cheek rested on her shoulder and closed his eyes. "But then again, maybe I would be better than my own Da." He grinned. "That would be a good revenge. Throw it up in the face of his ghost. Another area for me to out-succeed him and everyone else."

_Better. Better than everyone else in everything. The best_.

Cassandra leaned back, which forced Oswald to sit up. She ran her fingers down his neck and massaged his shoulders. "Well, there is no need to rush that decision. We have two more boxes—"

"_Oh no_ . . ." Oswald cut her off. "There is no way any of those things are getting near you again. Or, me—for that matter."

"Well, then, what do you suggest?" She grinned at him and raised an eyebrow.

"Picking up where we left off," he stated with a leer. _Am I drooling? I am sure I am drooling_. He passed his hand over his mouth, just in case. "That is, if your eye is no longer causing you discomfort and you want . . ." He did not have to finish his sentence. She was on him like an ant on sugar.

They did not leave the room until the night of the ball.

That was four days later.


	74. Chapter 73

Chapter 73

Because of the recent warring between the Maroni and Falcone crime families, James Gordon had been put on security detail at a charity ball in case some of the violence spilled over to the upper crust. As the music played and donors entered and exited the dance floor, he regarded the couple in front of him, eyeing them from a distance. He was not sure if they knew he was there.

Cassandra was lovely. It was really the only appropriate word to describe her. Oswald was not. James did not understand her attraction, nonetheless her devotion, to him. He understood where Oswald would revolve around her—her appearance, her manner, her cleverness—but she was unbalanced. So was Oswald.

_Was that what attracted the two of them to each other? _

Both bore obvious hints of emotional and mental instability, but they saw each other as completely normal, only with individual idiosyncrasies. _It was the rest of us who were the freaks_.

James had found out during the course of the week that Cassandra was suffering from extreme nightmares, and had since she was a child. Probably a result of the fire that had killed her parents, with her as witness. That was the perks of dating a doctor; Leslie had all kinds of information on all kinds of people. And, if she did not have it personally, she knew how to get it without breaking any laws.

He watched them. Cassandra supported Oswald as they danced. He laughed at something she said. She brushed his bangs from his eyes. He fixed her loose earring. She straightened his bowtie. It was a gracefully awkward dance. They weaved and twirled and clung to each other, ignoring everyone else.

They were the dancing couple in a wishful child's snow globe—a whorl of black and white.

James Gordon took a sip of his bottled water and sighed. He could not believe he actually wished for what they had. It reminded him of a quote he had read or heard—a memory from some sad book or movie from long ago: "A most mediocre person can be the object of a love which is wild, extravagant, and beautiful as the poison lilies of the swamp."

The rest of us are not even here, he thought as Oswald leaned in to kiss her.

James Gordon was envious.

So was another being who looked up from his liquor just in time to see the couple flash across the TV screen that hung behind the bar. They were being interviewed, and Ed Ogilvy squinted to read the closed captions as the man he referred to as Oz spoke to the reporter, taking the microphone out of her hand.

"My wife Cassandra (Ed noted that Oz made it a point to pull her into the frame) and I are thrilled to be here. It is indeed for a worthy cause, a most admirable charity."

_His wife_, Ed thought, as he swished the stinging liquid around in his mouth. It tingled an open cut he had on his bottom lip. He had a notion that he may have been involved in a brawl the night before, but he was not sure. The nights had pasted themselves together since the evening he lost Ann and was threatened by Cobblepot.

He hated Cobblepot. He had taken away his home (Anne's father had paid for their rent), he had taken away his livelihood (gambling and "odd jobs" were always better in Gotham as opposed to Bludhaven), he had taken away his wife (Anne was the caregiver to both him and Ignatius), and he was sure to take away his life (Cobblepot wanted his blood).

Now he was stuck here in Bludhaven with a drug-addict for a girlfriend (at least he and the child could crash at her place, but _man_ could Bridgette complain), lousy business associates (his cut of the money was for the birds and Bridgette was insisting he help with bills), and a child who was always sick or crying (several times he thought about dumping him at an orphanage).

It was time to pay Cobblepot back and as the camera scanned the ballroom at the ritzy hotel, Ed decided on what the price was going to be and who would start the game.

He threw a few dollars on the bar and trudged back to Bridgette's place. She was sleeping in, missing her shift at the bar he had just left. She had a habit of that—too strung-out to get out of bed or feed his crying brat. How hard was it to unscrew the lid on a jar of mashed green beans?

He shook her and she mumbled something in her sleep. He nudged her again and she sat up, a picture of confusion and ruin, her mascara smudged making her look like a raccoon, or a battered woman. She never washed the makeup off, but just kept layering it on. He was surprised she could hold her eyelids up under the weight, nevertheless blink, but he guessed it was not so hard since she was wearing the bulk of the mascara on the bags underneath her eyes. Her red hair was in disarray. He also knew that was not her true hair color.

"I need the keys to your car," he said gruffly.

"Why?" she muttered.

He did not want to tell her that he was going into Gotham for a couple of days. She would never agree to him taking her car. "I just need them."

"Go screw yourself," she said, laying back down.

"I got a job I got to go on," he lied, sort of. _Slimy, low-life, good-for-nothing, dangerous lunatic season is open and I am going hunting_. She did not respond. He swore and stomped away from the bed, slamming open a cupboard in the kitchen to get his kid something to eat. He settled down with Ignatius on the coach and stuffed pureed chicken into his mouth.

The child gulped it down as if he had not eaten all day, which was a likely scenario, and then immediately fell asleep on Ed's shoulder. He was disgusted by his son's runny nose and lifted him off himself, taking him to his second-hand crib. He had been pissed off when he had to purchase _that_ instead of an expensive bottle of whiskey he had been ogling for a while. Like a child would press his face against a glass storefront window to salivate over the toys, Ed did that each time he passed a liquor store—the pretty amber and brown bottles tempting him and glowing like candles in a church sanctuary.

_Someday I am going to drink that whiskey, even if it kills me_. For Ed, it would be like winning the lottery.

He heard a scuffling noise coming down the hallway.

"I suppose I missed work again?" Bridgette asked. Her pink bathrobe hung open to reveal a faded tee shirt and plaid sleep shorts. She was wearing pink bunny slippers.

"Yep," he answered her, having plopped back down onto the couch with a beer in one hand.

"We need a new start," she said. "I will give up the drugs, baby. Really make a clean break this time."

Ed humored her. He had heard that before. Not that he really cared.

"Okay, sugar" he said. "How about we start again in Gotham? I'll find work and bring home steak every night." He tried hard not to sound condescending, taking a sip of the worst beer he had ever tasted. It was important to treat her gently in order to get her to agree. He knew it was the only way he would get those car keys. Or maybe he would just ditch her and take the bus.

"Gotham," she repeated and snickered. "I always did like the name of that city better than I do Bludhaven." She sat beside him and laid her head on his shoulder. He cringed at the thought of her getting Iggy's snot in her hair. Serves her right though. Should have fed my kid.

Ed chuckled. "Gotham, it is." He toasted the air and told her, "We leave in the morning."


	75. Chapter 74

Chapter 74

Oswald held onto Cassandra as the band played their song. The singer had a voice as smooth as Ella Fitzgerald, and her soulful crooning made Oswald want to cry. He buried his face in Cassandra's hair and sang the ending strains: "Someone to watch over me". Behind her ear, she had clipped a gardenia bloom—as soft and cool as silk. A petal drooped over the bridge of Oswald's nose like a weightless blanket.

He presently wondered how he had been lampooned into dancing—Cassandra was very convincing. Somewhere during the past four days, he had developed a different kind of courage. It gave him an energy he had not tapped into yet. It felt good. _He _felt good.

Cassandra was ravishing in a dress of black, a color he was surprised to see her in. When she revealed herself, Oswald was certain he looked the part of the cheeky wolf from those Saturday morning cartoons he used to watch as a kid where the canine's eyes would pop out of its sockets every time the "hello nurse" walked past.

Of course, he had astonished her too, exchanging his dark jacket for a white one. They had done a complete reversal. People stared as they walked by and at first Oswald had wanted to glare at them and bare his teeth before realizing that they were cordially acknowledging the two of them out of habit and expectation, just as this fine group of old and new money had done before and would continue to do long after they had left Cassandra and his company.

Also intriguing to him was that nobody had sneered at him or made fun of his gawkiness as he tried to recreate the ballroom steps his mother had taught him. No one, except a rude handful, seemed to really be paying him any attention. For the most part, he just blended in with the others like a normal person.

Normal. He relished the sound of that word and what it meant.

Still, he felt as if he was being watched, not just by those few whose impolite curiosity caused them to stare, but by a presence that was particularly focused on them. His paranoia kept him alert as he scanned the room paying extra attention to the shadowed corners. His eyes refused to let him see into their darkness. For once in his life, he felt safer on the dance floor rather than off it.

Oswald was pleased to see he still had the moves, even if they were awkward and unsteady. Cassandra had praised him for his performance—both on and off the dance floor. Looking quite proud of himself, the perpetual cheesy grin that was plastered to his face caused his countenance to stay continuously bright, like the source of light was coming from several layers beneath his skin.

His mind revisited every second they had spent delighting in each other. If this was a dream or a hallucination or if he was dead, he wanted to stay asleep, high, or in the ground.

Oswald peeked at their hands. He held hers against his chest. Their fingers were speckled with tiny colorful flecks. Cassandra had brought the tile that would be displayed in the new aviary once it had been painted. Oswald had been pleased to read that the paint was non-toxic since they ended up wearing most of it. It had been a job trying to remove the stubborn liquid from the crevices in their nails and hands. He had a sneaking suspicion that was the reason Cassandra had packed it.

Why else would one bring art supplies on a honeymoon?

He had brushed the word "mine" all over her body before resorting to other forms of expression using his fingers. The tile itself ended up with a burst of color for its décor, much less decorated than they were, until they finally opted for a design of each other's handprints, one partially superimposed upon other, blending together. Each tile would be glazed by the volunteers from the foundation, before being adhered to the wall. Cassandra said she would mail it in as soon as they got back home.

Although on their honeymoon, there were some routines that Oswald would not disregard; however, they could be slightly adjusted—quite willingly, actually. Every morning during their stay, a complimentary newspaper was delivered to their door and Oswald sipped his tea while he read it.

That was the routine.

The exception was the time of day they elected to read it, because they were busy engaging in other, _more pleasurable _activities.

He would also check the broadcast news to review how his operation was unfolding. (Quite excellent, if he did say so himself.)

That was the routine.

The exception was, because of a 24-hour news cycle, he could chose when to view his handiwork, before concentrating on handiwork of an entirely different nature.

The one routine that had seemed to not raise its expected head was Cassandra's nightmares and terrors. She had slept serenely the whole week. Oswald mulled this over as they swayed to the music. _That is a good thing_, he kept reminding himself. Even after inspecting the journal, some of it in code, she slept soundly through the nights.

Well, when they did sleep.

Oswald liked to think her peacefulness was because of him, not just his presence, but the mere fact that they were legally joined—that perhaps this gave her mind some ease. Especially now that her only blood relative was no longer living—or any other relative, for that matter. She was not alone anymore. Oswald was now her family. Well, he and his mom— although, realistically, the thought of Gertrud in her life probably brought little comfort to Cassandra. At least, for the time being, unfortunately.

Still, he liked to believe her mind was settling. Or, maybe he was just wearing her out.

He remembered after the first night, lying beside her in the morning as she slept, the dawn pouring in on her, the amber rays making her shine like gold, and taking his breath away yet again. He took advantage of the quiet of the morning to study her shape, allowing himself to marvel at her form, starting with her face and traveling the stretch of her body, studying every pore and crevice, each curve and hidden freckle. He pulled the sheets down, only a bit, to not disturb her or cause her a chill. He resisted the maddening urge to run his fingertips across her skin. It was everything he had in himself to not nudge her awake and repeat last night's performances. Plural.

Oswald had received the encores he had so desperately craved.

As he scanned her slumbering form, an inconsistency caught his eye. Oswald frowned and leaned forward, inspecting her right arm before turning and switching on the bedside lamp. He winced when it clicked, and froze waiting for Cassandra to wake up. She remained asleep and he drew the lamp over to shine it on her arm.

_What is that_?

So faint, that it was barely there, was a scar in the apparent shape of a rectangle. He could not tell for certain, the pale line intermittently blending with her natural color. The skin on her forearm was also a lighter color than the flesh beside it, but it was so imperceptible, it would not and had not been noticed, especially on dark or grey days (which was everyday) and most definitely not at night.

He frowned and put the lamp back, two thoughts running through his mind. First, why did she not tell him? An old adage from childhood played across his memory—"you show me yours, I'll show you mine". Oswald had shown her his scars. Why did not she show him hers, or even mention them? Second, the image of the brass incendiary arm device crossed his mind and he carefully slipped out of bed to retrieve the journal, before realizing that the sketch he was looking for was in her father's book of blueprints back at the club.

Cassandra stirred and he quickly pushed the journal behind him, under his pillow. It was a habit he knew he would probably never outgrow—hiding things he coveted or items he wanted to explore. He knew he was allowed, even had privy, to the journal, with no rules or caveats attached. It was just that the threat of getting caught had become so ingrained in his psyche throughout the years that it had now manifested itself into an automatic reflex.

She turned and gazed at him through drowsy eyes. He looked guilty. She let out a soft laugh.

"You don't have to hide that," she said.

Oswald brought the book back around and crossed his arms.

"And you do not have to hide your scars," he responded, pouting.

She propped herself up on her elbows and asked him what he was talking about. He refused to let his attentions wander to her exposed upper torso and the way her hair curled over her bare shoulders and hung down her back. He would not think about him casting the book to the floor and rolling over onto her.

Nope.

Not going to even consider it because right now he was mad she had kept her scars from him after making such a heartfelt declaration that led him to reveal his scarred leg to her. Of course, Cassandra had used words that he had just spoken earlier when he was reassuring her as she was sick to her stomach. But still.

Cassandra sat up further and the sheet fell completely away from her. Oswald closed his eyes.

"I don't have any scars," she said, beginning to inspect her arms and chest. "At least, not that I know of." Oswald opened his eyes to grab the lamp off the table and took her arm, casting the light on her until she could see the discrepancies in her skin. She leaned forward to look closer and rubbed her hand over her forearm.

"Could _this _be the reason why you were attending to your arm on the ferry yesterday?" he asked, none too gently.

"Wow," she said. "How did you even see _that _unless you had a magnifying glass? Do you have a magnifying glass?" She was teasing him now and this time he did not like it.

He set the lamp back. "How could you keep this from me?"

"Why? Do I repulse you now?" she said sardonically. "Do you not want to be married to me anymore simply because I have a scar that is _barely visible_? Oh, right, except to you, _apparently_."

His face fell but still retained its anger. "That's not what I meant," he growled.

"And it's not like I'm _hiding_ it, since I do not even recall it. I guess I got it in the fire, and I've never _deliberately_ tried to cover it up, because AGAIN I didn't _even_ _remember it being there_!"

She started listing facts on her fingers. "I remember there was a fire, I was injured, there were trips to the hospital, but I cannot really remember what for—maybe they had me so pumped full of pain medication that the entire experience was blocked from my mind, _like everything else_! _There_! _Are you happy now_? _I have NEVER purposely hid ANYTHING from you!_" In spite of her being angry, she burst out crying. Oswald slumped and put his arms around her, laying them both back on the pillows.

"Okay," he cooed, petting her hair. "Okay." He planted several kisses on her forehead. "I guess I felt played the fool. You had made a good argument for me to show you my leg in all its glory, and I felt betrayed that you did not extend the same courtesy to me in regards to your own scars."

She sat up, pushing herself away from him. "You know, if you truly believe that you cannot trust me, then maybe this marriage was not such a good idea, after all."

The blood drained from his face and he quickly sat up. "What? _No_." He sounded like a child who was exasperated from always being misunderstood.

"Do you mean—no, the marriage was not such a good idea?"

"No," he responded, unsure if that was the right answer._Wait a second, I think I just said something wrong_.

Cassandra's brows wrinkled. "No—it was not, or no—it was?"

"I . . . it was?" Oswald saw her jaw tighten._Yes. Yes, indeed, I did say something wrong_. _Fu—_

"It was a bad idea or it _wasn't_?" she insisted, infuriated.

_Okay, now I am mad again_, Oswald thought. He recrossed his arms and shouted, "_You tell me_!"

They sat there glaring at each other for a long time before they each noticed a subtle change in the other's features. Their faces softened and the anger that was just alive in both their eyes was suddenly replaced with a gleam of desire. They lunged for each other, depositing mouths and hands on willing flesh, Oswald bunching his fist in her hair and Cassandra clinging to his shoulders.

"It's a great idea," Cassandra managed to squeak between gasps. "Our being married. Perfect idea." She covered his lips with hers.

Oswald agreed breathlessly, "I concur. Best idea ever." He nuzzled and kissed her neck ferociously, his hands running up and down her back before taking her right arm and kissing the length of it. "I love you and I trust you," he said.

"I love and trust you too. I could see how you felt betrayed," she stammered, as he nibbled on her ear.

"I know you would not hide anything from me," he whispered, before working his way south.

No matter the misunderstandings or disagreements, Oswald was deliriously happy.

Near to the close of the evening of the charity ball, once the band started winding down, several of the patrons discussed poker games that were continuing into the wee morning hours in several of the breakout rooms to give that extra push for fundraising. The mixed-group rooms were full, and at first they had declined invitations for gender-separated gambling until a last minute appeal was made invocating the good that had been done for children and how so much more could be done—the goal was almost reached. Begrudgingly, they consented, offering only an hour of their time. Oswald accepted that it would most-assuredly work to his advantage—should the topic ever come up—about his altruistic undertakings, especially if he decided to enter the political arena in the future. It would not hurt to be seen as one who was devoted to the cause of giving.

Cassandra went in one direction and Oswald in another. Upon reaching his destination, a few of the men informed Oswald that there was a different kind of gambling going on in one of the other backrooms, one where the players could keep all their winnings, not having to donate it to charity. Oswald wrinkled his nose and shook his head. He was not interested. Money was not necessarily a motivator for him.

But information was, and after learning of the networking opportunities he would have from gambling with the shadier citizens of Gotham, Oswald followed a handful of gentleman out the door of the breakout room, discretely slipping on his gloves, and down the back hall where only employees were allowed, to another room, where a game was just getting started. Oswald was amused that this game, which was illegal and not even supposed to be acknowledged, but kept secret, was being catered openly by the hotel kitchen staff, complete with buffet and alcohol. He had to look into hiring their accountant.

Throughout the hour, much namedropping from the goons around him was done and Oswald got an earful on the drug and arms trade, along with some other business dealings he found distasteful and decided he would refer this newly acquired information to James Gordon. There were some things even Oswald could not abide by. The heavy man in front of him seemed to be most deeply steeped in being more a customer than a dealer of this sort of enterprise and Oswald made a mental note to kill him later, just for the fun of it. He would not have to wait too long to get his wish.

In the meantime, his mind kept wandering back to Cassandra and he kept checking his watch to see when the hour would be up. He wondered how she was doing. He himself had made five-thousand dollars, learned the secrets of a few of the top lieutenants of rival mobs and which government officials they had at their mercy, stole a gold-plated cigar holder, and pocketed a Rolex watch—the last two just to keep up his skills. He had been parted from Cassandra for nearly an hour and he could not stand it.

Cassandra missed Oswald's company too and, after listening to the non-stop chatter of the company she was in, was afraid she was developing a headache. These women talked over each other like a gaggle of birds. Now she understood the caricature, even though she still resented it.

Oh, well. At least she had three-thousand dollars she could add to the charity bank. She checked the clock on the wall. Five more minutes. She was so ready.

"So tell us, Cass . . ." Cassandra winced. She hated that nickname.

"I prefer Cassandra," she interjected.

"So tell us, _Cassandra_, how's the 'wink, wink, nudge, nudge' with the new husband?" The ladies laughed.

"I am not going to discuss that with you guys. That's tacky." The women exchanged glances.

"We understand," said the redhead want-to-be-socialite, snickering.

"No, I don't think you do. It's inappropriate and lacks respect." Cassandra sat the cards on the table. "But if you must know," she said, gathering up her winnings, which were in the form of chips, and dumped them into the supplied taffeta bag. "He is very thorough and I always walk away completely satisfied—that is, when I _can _walk. Now, if you will excuse me—I am hot and bothered and need to find my husband to render my legs useless."

She turned her back on them and sauntered out of the room, leaving them with their mouths hanging open.

_Awww, poor ladies_, she thought. _They got nothing to put in them_.

Oswald was having a similar experience.

"So is the new ball-and-chain _talented_?" asked the bloke across from him, shoving his neighbor and laughing like he had just told the most genius gutter joke the world has ever known and we were the first to hear it straight from his very lips aren't we blessed.

_It will be a pleasure killing you, sir._ Oswald smirked.

"I am not in the habit of disclosing my and my wife's intimate doings. It is incredibly disrespectful to my bride and I take issue with that affront." He hesitated a moment and then laid his cards down on the table before standing. "Now, gentleman—although I doubt you deserve to be referred to as such . . ." He had meant it as an insult, but they all laughed. "You will pardon me."

The same man muttered, "Well, you know what they say: if you can't say something good, don't say anything at all . . ." Oswald noticed the foul-minded imbecile getting a swift kick from his buddy beside him, as Oswald proceeded to silently gather his jacket and winnings (in the form of cash) before shuffling toward the door.

"None of us meant any offense, Mr. Cobblepot," piped up one of the other men, as Oswald slid on his jacket. He knew something bad was brewing in that mind of Penguin's and he preferred to be on his good side.

Oswald stopped and turned to face them.

"It does not matter what your _friend _here meant. I _am_ offended, but that is not why I am leaving—"

The same man who had spoken earlier interrupted him, snickering.

"Embarrassed?" He was too stupid to notice no one else was laughing along with him.

Oswald took a deep breath and sighed, titling his head with a smirk on his face.

"No. I am not embarrassed, tongue-tied, pusillanimous, or ashamed." He ignored their confounded looks as he pocketed his winnings.

"Pusillanimous?" one man asked another, who shrugged.

_Morons_.

"Nor am I a prude or intimidated or lily-livered—that's what pusillanimous means, by the way—lily-livered. _You, sir, especially will want to take note_." He pointed to the man that had made the initial loutish remarks.

The man stood. He was rather large. Oswald did not flinch.

"Oh, yeah, why is that?" he said, raising his chins.

The rest of the men slowly pushed themselves away from the table. The offender looked around at them and it gradually dawned on him that maybe he should have just kept his mouth shut, won some money, spent it on booze and cigars, and then hurried home to the missus with flowers from whatever grave he could steal them off without getting shot.

Unfortunately for him, his sudden spike in IQ was not going to work in his favor. In all honesty, the man was doomed from the moment he had opened his horse-toothed mouth.

The speed in which Oswald grabbed the carving knife from the roast beef station and hurled it toward the oaf should have been clocked by a sports velocity gun—the kind used to determine the speed of a baseball because, baby—_that was a strike! He's out_!

_Looks like someone will not be running home tonight_, Oswald mused. It is amazing how far a utensil can penetrate a person when the power behind it was backed by focused rage and adrenaline. Oswald could see the handle, but the steel blade was lost beneath the fat.

The men gaped at Oswald, but were smart enough to stay put.

"What are you going to do?" he asked them. "Turn me in? I do not think so. Here we are at a clandestine shindig that is not supposed to be taking place. An illegal gamble. So go ahead. Convince the cops that I was at a party that never took place. I have not partaken of tonight's delicacies and there are no fingerprints to implicate that I was ever a guest in this room." He raised his gloved hands and twiddled his fingers. "So there we have it. Unless you want them to know that each of you were here with me as well."

They each shook their head.

_At least now they knew who not to mess with, who meant business and would remedy any slight. Remember me, gentlemen. Play nice. You will be working for me in a few days. _Oswald looked to the man he had just wounded. _Well, except for you._

The injured man grasped the area at his gut where his liver had just been divided in two and collapsed onto his knees, hard enough to jar the dinnerware on the table.

"Now, gentlemen, to answer your curiosity. The reason I am leaving you at present is that I am going to find my better-half because I am feeling rather concupiscent. You will have to look that word up for yourselves. Please enjoy the rest of your evening. Oh, and do try the roast—I hear it's 'to die for'." He smiled at them and exited from the room.

The man who had just been stabbed fell over dead the same moment Oswald slammed the door.

Strolling back through the staff hallway, whistling, Oswald pulled out a few bills and gave a rather large tip to a busboy stacking dishes in a tray, and passed through the breakout room, removing his gloves and stuffing them into his tux, before exiting into the corridor in front of the main ballroom. Most of his winnings had come from the man he had just put down, and he an inkling of what he wanted to do with the money.

Oswald spotted Cassandra coming from the other end of the passageway, and his heartrate increased. She had just deposited her winnings in a charity jar and looked up, smiling when she saw him. She quickened her pace. He did likewise. When they met in the center, in front of the double doors, she threw her arms around him and stood higher in her heels until they were nose to nose. He wrapped his arms securely around her waist. They were like candles giving off their own glow, and had no idea the envy and longing they inspired in the crowd around them.

And why should they? They were on Mount Olympus and had no plans on ever coming down.


	76. Chapter 75

Chapter 75

Cassandra was startled out of her sleep. Her heart was racing and the sound of her blood pulsing in her head reminded her of rushing waves. She did not know the cause of her start; there was no familiar smoke residue churning inside her mind and no clawed phantom harvesting bits of her brain.

_So what was it then_?

The sense of too many eyes upon them, she supposed. From the moment they had stepped into the grand hotel lobby, to the instant they had swept themselves onto the dancefloor, and their decision to separate into the gambling suites, she believed they were under surveillance.

They had not emerged from their room in days—it had been so peaceful, and so private, away from prying eyes. When they had ventured from that cozy nest, she felt on display and wanted to fly back and stay locked away with Oswald in their own private world. Not opening any doors.

Irrational, she knew.

Dancing, dining, being back amongst the horde was just aggravating her unfounded paranoia, she was sure of it. But still . . .

It lingered.

Even now, in Gotham, away from the watchful eyes of the people in her town, she could not shake the feeling of habitually being observed, and not just by Oswald—which she liked, even though it was a bit maddening—but by the unknown . . . a walking dead creature. It was the same way she had felt growing up—eyes always upon her—and it had followed Cassandra from her miniscule farm to Oswald's vast city. She did not want anyone to stalk or menace him. If they wanted her, that was one thing. If they wanted _him_, they had a fight coming, one which—whatever _that_ foe was, whether the fiend was _a they, an it, a he,_ or _a_ _she_—that adversary would lose, and Cassandra would make sure it hurt.

She felt a burning in her chest. An actual want or need to kill.

Awake and on full alert, Cassandra turned her head—hearing the slight swish of her hair as it buried itself against the pillow as she moved—to look at her husband who was peacefully dozing beside her.

_Is this what it feels like for him? Or is his more logical? More organized? _She sighed with regret_. I should had just killed Maroni when I had the chance._

The curtain across the room was slightly askew and she quietly sat up, intending to rise and close it, but she did not move, instead stealing another glance towards her mate. It was not just the fluorescent beam from the bathroom that highlighted the slumbering form of Oswald, but also the moonlight. It illuminated his upper body the way it would new-fallen snow, causing his skin to almost glimmer—like a magical creature from another realm. His complexion looked as creamy as milk and his physique was smooth like porcelain, with the occasional scar that had faded to an _even lighter_ pigmentation than his skin.

_He is an alabaster Adonis, and he does not even know it. Would not even believe it._ She had to clench her hands into fists to keep from touching him, wanting to trace the veins that snaked from his elbows to his wrists.

Her eyes lingered on the steady rise and fall of his chest, and she grinned at the occasional twitch of his hand. _You are an exquisite example of a man_, she thought, resisting the urge to rouse him from sleep.

Cassandra had thought _her_ appetite was voracious, Oswald's was just as insatiable, once he pushed past his initial hesitancy. He was every bit as zealous and focused in his fervor for her as he was in his quest for power—there was no question about _that,_ but he had been so unsure when the moment had arrived, a plethora of worries playing across Oswald's mind—hurting her, smothering her, not living up to _his_ _own_ idea of how he was supposed to be . . .

Fortunately, with a little coaxing, Cassandra convinced him, and in the process, she appreciated the comicality of the role reversal—herself in the antiquated role of restless groom and Oswald, the stereotype of timid new bride.

She watched his face. The changes that flashed across Oswald's features reminded her of a stack of cards being shuffled. So many cards, with so many different designs, changing so quickly.

This had been new to both of them and, thankfully, the soreness Cassandra had experienced faded away. Oswald had run her a bath right after—sponging her back and washing her hair, occasionally pausing to ply her with strawberries and champagne.

As promised on the night of the flower messenger's demise, Oswald had candles lit for her and jazz playing—they had both agreed they would rather indulge in the sweet sparkling wine instead of hot tea.

Oswald was experiencing his share of soreness as well, his hip feeling the effects of Mooney's abuse to his knee and ankle, the ache also radiating up into his lower back. At his wife's insistence, he soon slipped into the sudsy water himself, to help relieve the spasms.

Watching her husband painfully lower himself into the tub served as confirmation of yet _another _example of why Oswald's former boss had to die. Together—in what had started out as a joke, but turned serious—the couple had taken inventory of all the evil things she had done, with special attention paid to the ills she had visited upon Oswald, and labeled it: "Reasons to Kill Fish Mooney" by Oswald and Cassandra Cobblepot, complete with "pro" and "con" list. They had quite an impressive collection under the "pro" column.

There was nothing listed under "cons".

Oswald's limited mobility added to all the frustration he already bore. His leg had been brutally maimed, without the option for proper examination and rehabilitation. All the ligaments, the knee cap, shin, and ankle—had been severely injured and had fused incorrectly as they healed. As a result, he was hindered by pain and muscle weakness caused by damage to the nerves.

Cassandra had no complaints. Despite both their inexperience and Oswald's infirmity, his enthusiasm was infectious; his desire to please—both touching and fulfilling. It also helped that they spoke to each other, remaining candid and retaining humor.

Over the course of those next few nights (_and days_!), Cassandra hoped that she had not disturbed their hotel neighbors _too much_—but the man had natural talent. It was just a fact.

Oswald's hair was a bi-polar mess all over the pillow. Cassandra thought it was adorable, _he_ was adorable_._ She moved silently as to not disturb him and stood at the window, clutching the curtains while gazing down upon Gotham. Although the room temperature stayed comfortable, a coolness permeated the double-paned glass nonetheless, chilling the air in front of her.

In this part of the city, at this hour, all was quiet, except for a handful of loitering taxis and those few adventurous souls brave enough to tempt the city in its early morning hours when it was the hungriest. The fancy shops had all been closed and caged up, put away for the evening, but their signs were very much awake and alive in the night, free to brighten the streets, warning lurkers that—_yes, we see you_.

She shuddered. _Was it out there somewhere_? _What was it waiting on_? The waiting was the worst part. Had her parents gone through this torture—_waiting_? _Why had they not just killed it . . . like I did, or thought I did. _

_Maybe they had tried too, and failed._

Much of the journal was in code. Somehow Cassandra and Oswald would need to decipher it. Those scribbled words and symbols held the key, not to just discovering the mystery of who or what sought her and why, but possibly to an altogether larger and more sinister scheme.

The couple _had_ learned that _extreme cold_ could disable the creature, but not heat. If only they knew someone who owned a freeze gun. _Why couldn't I have learned to play with hail instead of fire_? _Now they both may be damned_.

With an edict worthy of a love-struck hero in a Shakespearean play, Oswald had remarked with much grandeur that he would build her a home of ice to keep the villain at bay, and why not throw in some polar bears for added security. The dramatic flourishes he granted his hands and arms as he spoke gave animation to his monologue and reaffirmed his adamant declaration. If only there had been a cloak to throw over his shoulder as he concluded his theatrics.

Cassandra had wanted to throw roses at his feet and yell "Brava!"

She did give him a standing ovation. He was mesmeric to witness when he was on a roll and she reveled in being his audience, completely spellbound.

At this particular performance, she was glad there was not a dress code.

_I think he was serious though. Even about the bears._

She heard rustling behind her and felt Oswald's presence before he encased her with his arms, effectively chasing the chill away from her body. _Best. Coat. Ever_.

He did not say anything, but placed his chin upon her shoulder and started rocking the two of them together left and right, a musicless dance to anyone else, but not to them. Where Cassandra and Oswald lived, an orchestra played.

Cassandra closed the curtains and tilted her head to lean her cheek upon his, grinning as she felt the rough stubble already breaking through the smooth surface of his skin, and lightly ran her fingertips over his forearms. She felt him shiver.

"Did I wake you?"

"No," he whispered, his breath warm and made sweet by the raspberry champagne Cassandra had discovered the hotel offered. She liked that one best and Oswald had made certain that the staff sent up a bottle each day.

"You are worried," he stated in a quiet tone.

She shrugged and reached up to stroke the side of his face. "Yes. Not that it does any good," she answered him. "At least we have a starting point."

"That we do," he agreed. "We will also have an ending point, made all the sweeter because of your mother's foresight to create that journal."

"True, although it does not explain why I saw two different faces—one with slits for eyes, the other with goggles. Unless these where two separate occasions and I have combined them in my head." She nuzzled his cheek and savored its light roughness. She was certain her nose would be pink with abrasions if she continued. "And, does that mean there are two foes?" Oswald did not answer, but she felt his heart begin beating rapidly at her inquiry as he pressed against her back and tightened his grip around her.

Her question had bothered him.

"Why do I think this will end badly?" she sighed.

Oswald kissed her shoulder. "Only for them," he responded. He started tickling her right arm, playing over the spots where he knew the scars were, knew that they were burned into her skin or played reminder of where grafted flesh had been stitched. The hairs on her body stood up from his tingling touch and, the more Oswald caressed Cassandra's arm, the more her brain fidgeted.

She refused to allow open the doors that were slowly unlocking themselves and willed the deadbolts back into place.

If she was going to remember, it would be on her terms. It would not be now. It would not happen on their honeymoon.

She would not grant the phantoms the satisfaction.

Cassandra took Oswald's hand and led him back to bed.


	77. Chapter 76

Chapter 76

Oswald knew they would have to leave today and he did not want to go. Work and his mother beckoned to him like sirens, urging him to return (Oswald ignored the fact that wherever sirens gathered—shipwrecks soon followed), and he lay in bed staring up at the gold-flecked ceiling, listening to the steady breathing of his wife in his arms, focusing on the movement of her chest against his side as she breathed him in and out. Her raspberry breath tickled his skin as it played across his torso.

At least he had thought ahead to arrange for a late check-out. He deliberated paying for another day just to spend another lazy afternoon with her in bed, or on the floor, or in the shower . . .

He glanced over to where they had stood earlier in the dark of morning. The drawn curtains were not a formidable guard against the fuzzy sunlight that demanded and gained entry. He closed his eyes and wanted to replay every second of his time here with her, soaking it up into his memory.

It had been real. He had not dreamt any of it. It was _still _real, and he would take her home. To their home. To home. With her. He would have her. He _had_ her. She was his. He was hers. He belonged to someone. Cassandra was his. Wanted to be his. She wanted to be. He did not have to cajole or threaten or, goodness forbid, _pay_.

He was reminded of a scene from a Christmas claymation where a little red-nosed reindeer squeals with gleeful abandonment when it abruptly dawns on the uncooked venison that the doe thinks he is cute.

Cassandra stretched like a satisfied feline, her flesh rubbing the length of his body and hints of hair brushing his thigh, the combination of the two were like fire against his skin. He watched her shift further into him, wrapping an arm around his waist.

_I am ice cream and she is a warm summer day_.

He had wanted so badly for someone to love him and now that he had someone who did, he was content. And, not just _someone,_ but the person he desired and loved. So much anguish throughout the years, he was convinced it would never happen, and although the little imps that liked to torment him poked their pitchforks of doubt at his psyche, he pushed them aside and crushed them under the weight of his will.

Oswald was so happy and so scared out of his mind. Those two emotions were not compatible and he was reminded of his own thoughts from his initial time with her on that swamp of a farm when he was convinced, when he knew and was utterly sure, that dragging her away with him would put an end to reasonable judgement and he would never think straight again for the rest of his life.

Who knew he would be so joyful _and_ disheartened to realize that he had been so unequivocally _right_?

_I have come too far to continue in this mindset._

Oswald silenced those nagging voices like he had done to so many other voices that actually had bodies attached. As if he _wanted_ their opinions. He had found his mate and he was a stronger man for it.

Glancing down at Cassandra's arm, he wondered again about the scars.

He _knew_.

Oswald knew she had done the things she was accused of doing. He was devastated for her, even if she did not remember. Maybe it was best that she did not. His poor darling was a mass murderer.

Only for a moment, he allowed himself to grin and wallow in the blackness that surfaced within him. Then he shook his head, clearing it. Gone. Out of his mind.

_Out of his mind_.

The scars, the reaction to the blueprint of the arm device, two witnesses—maybe more. It was not fair. It was not fair that someone like her would be cursed to this, and he hated himself that he was grateful for it.

Maybe he was wrong. She did not do it. He wanted to be wrong. He _did_, he convinced himself. _But I am not_.

How bad were the burns? If she had been wearing the device, did it catch fire? It must have caught fire. Those would have been three-degree burns. He studied her arm again. Grafted, yes, lighter, but the scarring—it is barely noticeable—not even a criss-cross or hatched pattern. Nothing at all to show the graft itself, just some fine lines up and down her forearm, not consistent with the type of burn Oswald was certain she must have incurred.

_See, you motley fool_?_ You were wrong_!_ No evidence upon her skin_!

Almost like she had never been wounded to begin with—skin near perfect.

He thought back.

The basement—creating automations. She had crushed her finger in a clamp. He was sure she had broken it. Initially, she had yelped, but then she had shrugged off the pain and waved at him with the injured finger. Oswald was no fool. He had been around broken bodies enough to know a broken finger when he saw one. _But she had wiggled it at him_. The next day, the bruises were lighter, looking as green if they were a week old—not a day old.

But he ignored it because he was enamored by her. She paid attention to him. In a good way. A way that would make the meanest of fellows at least want to _consider_ being be a saint. Maybe for a day. Or, become eager to turn away from a lawless life. To win absolution from her. For a time, trapped in the delusion of a love poem.

Oswald thought again. He had shoved her against the wall once at Oswald's. She responded as if she had been slammed against the padding in Arkham Asylum, as if the solid wall had been coated with cotton balls. She had been surprised, but not hurt.

Just days ago, her eye had turned bloodshot, burning from a gel on a sheath, but she had quickly recovered—enough to tackle him and continue in their lovemaking, as if she had never been scathed, her eye returning back to normal within minutes, her injury dismissed by both of them. Oswald wondered if the box was still in the trashcan or if the maids had emptied the garbage when Cassandra and he had ventured that _one time_ from their room to attend the ball. He swore in his head. He would have to check before they leave. He wanted the ingredients analyzed. He was not quite sure how he was going to explain to a lab what exactly the sample was that they were dissecting. There had to be a way to do it anonymously.

Oswald also considered how eager Cassandra had been in the bath to feast on him again so soon after . . . He had run the bath for _her_ and climbed in when she insisted, his back still smarting, and yet as she kneaded out the ache in _his_ muscles, she made it clear that _she wanted him_ again. _Soon_. Was that normal? Not that he thought he was _gifted_ (although the way Cassandra spoke of him, one would think that he was), he honestly did not know the answer to that one. His nasty older brothers had said . . . they always had been ready with something horrific or vulgar . . .

And, never mind what they had said. He was not going to let the knowledge that they ever existed ruin his moment with Cassandra.

He blinked a few times. The ornate king-sized bed was comfortable and firm enough to support his back. Their body heat (or lack of it) fused together to form the perfect temperature. _I refuse to get up. I do not want to get out of this bed. I just want to stay here with this soft woman by my side_.

He felt Cassandra shift again, raising up to kiss his lips. It was a move he had not expected, believing she was still asleep, but Oswald responded eagerly, closing off the anxious recesses of his mind and drifting slowly, silently, and willingly into her caresses.


	78. Chapter 77

Chapter 77

The little one liked the maze the best. She would scamper on top of it, following the doomed occupant—the "mouse"—as he or she stumbled through the labyrinth. Sometimes she would escape to the underground cavern on her own when a show was not in session and just sit atop the wall in the dark silence, dangling her feet.

She thought of many things and believed herself to be quite grown up in her musings. Surely the adults could see how her attentions went beyond mere childish things. She scoffed at the others her age. Inanimate toys no longer held any interest for her, she had put away her dolls and ribbons much earlier than most girls did and she was proud of that fact. She wanted _live_ toys now and had become obsessed with Cassandra and Oswald and the idea of love, theirs in particular. They were so pretty. She had seen pictures. It was pleasing to her that Oswald looked like a bird.

"He was wounded," they had said. "But still vicious." This knowledge made her like him—them—all the more. Vicious and in love—what a wonderfully dangerous combination.

But, he had to be destroyed because that was just the way. It was the plan. A necessity. He was a threat to Gotham and to us. Something that had to be done, like fumigating a house overrun with termites or spraying poison over a yard full of fire ants. Survival of the fittest after all.

She drummed her long nails upon the top of the marble maze. It was white and sleek and beautiful and deadly. The child grinned. _Like Cassandra_, she thought.

She wondered if Cassandra would survive it—the drug, the twists and turns, the mind raze. She wanted her to survive it. So did the Court, only they wanted her brain broken, not her body.

They will probably put her in the dark.

The idea both delighted and upset her. She was not used to the dual feelings playing within her chest. Usually torture was so easy, and so much fun to watch. _But, I don't want them to break her brain. It was already fragile_. It had been healing itself over the years—_had _healed itself, but Cassandra was preventing her mind from remembering, blocking everything out by her own will. That was why the night errors came. Her brain was fully functional, completely mended, but her psyche was not. The little bird could not comprehend how a complete break in the woman's mental resolve could be avoided.

_It would certainly be a test_, she mused. _If she returned to him crazy and out for blood. Would he still love her then_?_ Would he slaughter her to protect himself? Or is her love so strong for him that it will reject its upcoming training_? So many possibilities. It was so exciting, she almost wet her britches.

She knew deep down, she rooted for them, but she would never breathe that to a soul. She wanted to watch them defy the Court. She wanted to see the surprised faces of the elders when love triumphs over death.

_But then they both may kill us all_.

She reclined on the cold stone. _Oh, how difficult it is to be born into such privilege. To be above the rest—so much better than any other and therefore constantly on guard. The rats below us should be grateful they have no such worries or concerns_.

"Why should I care for such vermin?" she had asked, when she was not as mature as she is now.

"Because some are special. They have ideas and abilities that we can manipulate to further our cause and our line. _We _do it from the comfort of our perch, while _they_ break a sweat and spend countless nights roaming their own minds to create what we want and need. They keep us alive for a time, which means they can also very readily set the path for our demise. So we must remain vigilant and in control. Rodents have proven their usefulness time and time again. They have also proven their destructiveness."

"Will we send the burned one to get her?" she had asked.

"No," was the answer, eyes cast downwards, avoiding her face.

"Why not?"

"He has to sleep longer. His rebirth did not work. Sometimes they don't. Revive too slowly or too quickly and the ice crystals . . ." Here was a pause. "Well, that is a nightmare for another time." Another pause. "It is the reason for the rats. A tiny one in the North has taken an interest in thawing frozen bodies. He will be the one to watch, to motivate. Yes. We feel sure he will hold the key to the perfect reanimation. Lovely, undead, indestructible warriors. Quicker regeneration, impossible to kill."

"I should go get her!" she volunteered, ignoring the rambling adults around her. Her motives were ulterior. She wanted to touch the lady, she could be her living doll, take her hand and drag her home.

A little child shall lead them.

Except that she was not a child, she reminded herself, and resented the pat on the head her suggestion had yielded her.

"No, it has already been decided. One of the Court shall retrieve her."

"When?"

"In due time."

_It was not fair_! She thought as she sat in the dark. The Court regarded the couple as just another cog in the machine, but for her, they were collectibles that she wanted to preserve and protect, to lock behind the glass constraints of a curio cabinet, to stare at and play with later.

If anyone ever found out what she _really_ thought, she would be in _sooooo much_ trouble.

She skipped the length of the wall she had just crouched on until she reached a nearby ladder. Each time she climbed down, she would jump from one ring higher than the last. Tonight she was up to ten rings. The ladder was secure, so she could just push off it and land without worrying about it sliding away from her or falling on top of her.

She landed with a thud and took off running towards the long corridor were the red beds were laid out like pills in someone's medicine box. Each one had a name embossed on the lid and if she ran her claws over the puffy letters, the red color would slither away like rain after a storm and reveal the name of the assassin in white letters. The names were written in cursive and throbbed like living veins. She placed her hand on a specific bed and could feel its life-wish pulsing underneath the tip of her claw as she looked at the name.

She shook her head. _Adults are stupid. I _really _should be the one to go get Cassandra_.


	79. Chapter 78

Chapter 78

Everything was right with the world—apart from an unnamed, unknown winged demon that wanted to spirit away or harm Cassandra—_but other than that_! _Boy howdy_! Oswald was certain he could do anything! The universe was his—full of possibilities, and _love_! My, was it full of love!

He use to hate that line in that movie: "You complete me." But, now he loved it. _Loved it_! _Brilliant line_! _Best line_! _I get it_! Even the little digs from his mother did NOTHING to erode his good humor! Where were the bluebirds? Should not they be landing on his shoulders by now?

Cassandra had jumped back into working on the weapons right after she had jumped Oswald. He had surprised her with an overhaul of the bathroom, even adding a quote specifically for her, painted across the wall just like the one in his office. The fancy lettering read: "O for a Muse of fire, that would ascend the brightest heaven of invention . . ." They ended up christening the new claw foot tub. Oh, and the imported marble counter.

When Oswald got back to his office, he thought nothing could spoil his good mood. He was wrong. There was a note on his desk. Scrawled across the neon-green paper was one word.

Marco.

His heart skipped a beat and the saliva released in his mouth caused his jaw to hurt.

Ed.

Oswald was incensed. It was _he_ who was supposed to start the game, not Ed Ogilvy. Not that sot who was perpetually "three sheets to the wind". Oswald was not the prey anymore. Did the drunkard not get the memo? Oswald will answer him all right and make him regret it.

He turned the paper over. The man was an idiot. The name of Ed's favorite bar was advertised on the back, along with the date and time of a band that would be rocking the establishment_. Well, old friend, I can always count on you to make a mistake. You cannot even rely on yourself._

Oswald considered crumpling up the greeting, but thought better of it, folding it instead and putting it in his pocket. _I guess I should welcome you back to town_.

"Business calls," he told Cassandra after he got off the phone. He had floated down the hall to tell her he would be back later, he needed to step out—a colleague wanted to speak with him, and for her to not wait up. As she straightened his tie and smoothed down the front of his jacket, he soaked in the sight of her. She kissed him on his nose and reiterated how proud she was to be married to him.

_Cassandra loves me and I get to kill someone_! _Score_! Oswald was pumped when he arrived at the address given to him and stood outside the dilapidated apartment where he had discovered Ed was shacked up for a few days—he had paid cash in advance—and had a lady friend with him. He had also brought his son.

Standing around the corner, Oswald watched the screaming couple emerge and then make their way down the street as they verbally tortured each other. They reached the façade of the Monarch Theater, the woman continuously thrusting the crying toddler into Ed's arms and he repeatedly thrusting the child back to her.

"I ain't this brat's mama! Stop leaving him with me. I got better things to do!"

"_What better things_?" Ed shouted back. "Stick a needle up your arm? Powder up your nose? What happened to '_I will give up the drugs, baby. Really make a clean break this time_'? The least you could do is stay back there and watch _him_!"

_So, she is an addict, is she_? thought Oswald. _Good. I can use that_.

He had checked on "Phil's" family—just as he had promised Cassandra he would. Turns out Phil's family was actually an Asian gang with their hands in many businesses, including white heroin, also known as "China White". It will kill this woman in an instant once she snorts it, thinking it is cocaine.

_This was going to be too easy_. He was mad there was not more of a challenge.

"I ain't no babysitter either—no matter how many times we been sleeping together!"

"I do not have time for this crying whelp!" Ed answered, shoving the terrorized boy back to her. "I never even wanted him! Now I don't even have his mother to deal with him!"

Maybe it was the drink talking. Maybe it was not. Alcohol just seemed to bring out the truth in some people. But that is what Ed loved. Alcohol. He has been spending permanent time with his liquid mistress—his heart's true desire. Not his wife. Not his child. Not this slut.

_How was it he was able to get another woman, and so soon after his wife's death_? Oswald was disgusted. Ed should not have had the last one, and he certainly should not have _that child_!

As the couple continued to yell, Oswald's attention reverted to the boy—the blonde-haired tot with a red, tear-streaked face.

Flashback.

Oswald was seven. He could hear the heavy, deep, brutish tone of his father as he bellowed at his mother, reminding her how much of a disappointment Oswald was to him. How he never wanted him. Was not even sure if he was his. She protested, declaring her devotion to him, Oswald's father. Him, alone. There had been no one else.

Gertrud had not been lying, but still the overgrown man would not accept his youngest son. He did not produce failures, deformities . . . freaks. His other sons proved that point.

Oswald was unclaimable. Unlovable. Unwanted.

Like this child. He knew how he felt.

He decided he would shoot the couple himself. Right then and there.

Oswald decided the best revenge would be to take Ed's child from him and raise the boy as his own.

_Watch me walk away with him, you dolt_.

It would also be sweet comeuppance towards his father.

_See. This is how you do it. I can raise a child better than you can, you foul man, devoid of love. And I'll have a child who loves me. I will be better than you._

_Honestly, to be better than you, Father Dearest, is not much of a challenge_.

But Oswald had a better idea. A plan not involving bullets. Something a little more dramatic. Something a little more fun. Something he would plan for another night. Oh, he would still take the child, but he wanted to enjoy Ed's death and terror. _Really, I should have gone into the entertainment industry_, Oswald thought.

That night in question came the next evening—"Another colleague, darling?" Cassandra teased. "Please be sure the person knows how much I disdain him taking your time away from me." —and Oswald was ready for the play to begin.

It was not hard to convince the slut to finish snorting the lines of "cocaine". You know, just a little. He understood. It was so hard to walk away from a good addiction. He had used his "fancy talk" to snow her. Oswald watched her convulse and foam at the mouth, her eyes rolling up from the overdose. She looked as if she were stretching. Really hard. He felt no pity for her.

When he was sure she was dead, he gave Gabe the final instructions. He could not wait to see Ed's face.

Ed was at the bar—the bar whose ad he had written his note to Oswald—on his second bottle of cheap Scotch whisky when the bartender handed him a parcel. Said it had just been delivered. Nobody had taken note of the person who had dropped it off on the counter. It had just magically appeared with Ed's name on it.

The bartender asked Ed if he had seen Bridgette. She had come in with Ed the day before and insisted that she was a top-notched waitress, so he had hired her on the spot. They never got half-decent looking women in this place, and on short-notice, she was the best he could do.

She had not shown up for her shift. Ed shook his head no—last time he had seen her, she was watching Iggy, or rather—she was watching her soap's in Ed's apartment. Iggy just happened to be an annoying presence in the room.

Oswald watched from a corner as Ed shook the package and began to untie the red silk string. The fact that the gift was wrapped in paper decorated with gold Chinse script was lost on Ed. Oswald sighed. He knew he should not have wasted his time on the packaging, but so enjoyed its clever presentation.

Who said murder could not be pretty?

Usually Ed sat at the bar, but he had an uneasy feeling about this gift. Picking up the bottle of liquor—which he held like a lover to his heart—he grasped the box and shambled to a vacated table and chair in direct view of Oswald. Oswald pulled his coat collar further up around his cheekbones and slumped down in the chair. He was reassured that no one's drunken eyes would take notice of him as he slouched in the dark corner, barely able to contain his glee behind his woolen lapels.

Ed finished removing the paper and opened the medium-sized box that had apparently contained frozen eggrolls in its other life, according to the graphics on the exterior. No wonder the package had felt so flimsy. Food companies always looking to save a penny, and to take a penny.

Ed glanced up for a moment and Oswald thought Ed had seen him.

Ed had not. Ed was wondering if the Chinese restaurant two blocks over was still open. He had a hankering for egg noodles all of a sudden and Zhou Dynasty had the best. Yeah, he would have to see if they would deliver to the bar.

As he was contemplating this, he opened the lid of the box and lost his appetite.

Inside was a severed hand. Bridgette's severed hand, to be exact. He could tell by the tattoo on the middle finger that was limply laying there giving him the bird, all the other fingers primly tucked underneath. He retched and, bending over, threw up half a bottle's worth of cheap scotch before knocking over chairs in his attempt to stumble and claw his way out of the bar, the gruesome package having been knocked to the floor, only to be discovered well-past closing time.

A neon-green note included with the package read: "Polo". It fluttered to the ground underneath the table.

Ed's sudden illness encouraged a litany of obscenities and demands for him to get the hell out of the establishment—something he was keen on doing. He had the presence of mind to take the unpaid-for bottle of scotch with him while the bar-keep yelled his displeasure at Ed's decision.

Most of his journey home included sniveling and whimpering, with the occasional drool or snot accompanying his awkward, sporadic movements.

_I will get home_, he thought, _and Bridgette will have both hands and this is just some drunken stupor dream I am having. I will wake up in my own vomit again and realize it has all been a hallucination. He has not found me. He has not found me_.

He stumbled up the stairs that led to his apartment where he resided over a deserted bookstore and found Bridgette crumpled outside his door. Pinned to her was a note that read: "The game is afoot." She clutched an expensive bottle of bourbon—the kind he dreamingly longed for—under her pasty exposed arm. He had never liked the way a woman looked in a tank top.

Inside Ed's dwelling, he could hear the wails of his son. Ed stood there and deliberated a moment, not sensing the laser-like stare of icy blue eyes watching him from a distance.

Bridgette was dead, so there was nothing he could do here. Her body would be discovered, and with that—so would Iggy, and the brat would finally be taken off his hands. The only thing left to do was to take the bottle and run before Oz discovered him again. He should have left well enough alone. _Never should have come back to Gotham. Never should have_ . . .

"_Marcooooo_ . . ."

Ed's hair stood on edge. Oswald was here; his voice echoed and reverberated off the buildings making it impossible to know where he was hiding. Of course, the alcohol was not helping Ed's perspective either. Oswald was teasing him—the way a predator plays with its meal before it devours it.

Ed turned, but did not see Oswald anywhere. He may have a chance; Oz had a bum leg. He could not keep up with Ed if he ran.

Ed reached for the amber liquid.

"Have some," sang out Oswald's discombobulated voice. "Or don't—the choice is yours. I just thought you might like to enjoy your last nightcap by indulging in something finer than the piss you pour down your cowardly throat."

"One last meal?" Ed tentatively called out, trying to make light of the desperate situation.

"Of course, I am not entirely devoid of human kindness," responded Oswald.

It was a temptation Ed could not resist. He found the cork came out easily and, if he had been sober, might have stopped to question that fact. But Ed was Ed and he had not been sober for years.

The liquid went down smooth and hot, like warm vanilla thickened with a dollop of molasses. It made him feel quite cheery, optimistic even, as if everything was right with the world. Maybe Oz wasn't such a bad guy after all.

"Ed, you are wasting time. I suggest you run," said Oswald.

Ed smiled and the slur in his speech became more pronounced. "Why?" he asked with impunity. "You gonna catch me, Ozzzzz?" He snickered through his nose as he descended the steps, one hand on the bannister and the other holding the bourbon while cradling the whiskey like a baby. When he reached the street, he took another long, luxurious swallow.

_Wow, it's really going to my head. My arms feel funny_.

"You feel that tingling, Ed? Soon it will spread to your torso, and then your legs, your feet, until you are completely paralyzed. The thing you love is going to kill you, Ed. I told you it would."

Oswald stepped out of the shadows. Actually, Ed could not tell if it was one Oswald or three, his vision beginning to blur. He could see that each one was holding something triangular in his right hand.

"Marco!" yelled Oswald, rather impatiently. The whiskey bottle slid out from under Ed's arm and shattered on the pavement. He started a slow trot, stepping on an upturned piece of glass that penetrated the sole of his weathered shoe and cut his foot. He hardly noticed the pain.

No one was out this time of night, or morning rather. Not those with any sense. They were either in bed, in someone else's bed, or in an establishment of ill repute. The few that were insane enough to roam the city at this hour were on bloody missions of their own or were lost in a haze of drugs and alcohol, too numb to pay attention to the crazy man who weaved down the street shouting like a person that had just escaped from Arkham.

"_He's going to kill me_!" he implored a man. Ed grabbed at the stranger to discover that not only had he reached for one of the phantasms, he had miscalculated the distance and tripped, falling against a very real, very human, very irritated vagrant, only to be roughly shoved back into the nearly deserted street, but not before being relieved of his bourbon—for the man's trouble.

"I have a child!" cried Ed. "You wouldn't kill a father, would you?"

That made Oswald go still in his tracks. His laughter sent shivers up Ed's spine and he knew he was a dead man. Oswald answered him. "A _father_! _I heard you_, Ed! And, that little whore—_what you said_! _I_ am going to be his father now, Eddie boy! So hand me a cigar and congratulate me!"

"Then you curse him!"

"Curse him? I am going to _save_ him!" Oswald growled like a crazed animal and resumed his pursuit of the doomed man.

"Marco!" Oswald called again, increasing his pace. Ed turned the corner and realized he was on the street where the Monarch Theater was located. He was where his wife and brother-in-law had been mowed down.

_This isn't happening_, he thought. He stumbled and fell, bruising his knee. He felt like a magnet being pulled downwards toward metal.

"Dammit, Ed! You are not playing the game _correctly_! Answer me! _Marcooooooo_!"

Ed was panting now, grasping at walls that were really two or three feet away from him, tumbling forward and then propelling himself off the pavement. He could not feel his toes. Soon it would be his legs. His fingertips felt like they were burning. The tingling was so intense that he wanted to slam them against the brick walls.

Oswald fished Ann's pink phone from his breast pocket and called Ed, who did not look at the number before answering it. He thought he could tell the caller he was being stalked and _could you please send help_?

"Please send the cops! I am in front of the Monarch Theater. Oswald Cobblepot is trying to kill me!" He paused for a response, but did not get one. Instead there was a click and the phone went silent before ringing again.

"Marco!" Oswald screamed into the receiver before Ed could speak. "_Marco, Marco, Marco, Marco_!"

Ed hung up on him and decided he was going to call the police himself. So what if the GCPD had warrants for his arrest—he would be safer in jail than out here on the streets with Oz. He attempted to dial the three easy digits—9-1-1—but lost the strength in his hands and dropped the phone. Bending over to get it, he fell headfirst to the concrete, leaving a nice red slash across his forehead. As Ed tried to lift himself off the pavement, he saw the shadow of Oswald behind him, looming large with the help of the streetlamps.

"You. Are. _Cheating_," said Oswald as he kicked the phone out of Ed's reach. Ed could detect only a vague sensation of flesh, muscle, and bone as he crawled down the street, trying to retrieve the phone that Oswald kept booting out of his reach.

"At least you could have the decency to play fair and answer me. You have not said 'Polo' yet. _Not one lousy time_!" Oswald whined as he kicked the phone again. "Look where we are!"

Outside the entrance to the theater, Ed stopped moving and glanced up. Oswald waited.

"Nothing? Oh, where is my noggin? _Of course_—you cannot speak. Paralysis is a bitch, huh?" Oswald looked at the marquee and sighed.

"Finally, _at last_, we have come to the end of your pathetic attempt to survive, by which—truth be told—in all its fruitlessness, I was impressed. Got to go on living for that next bottle, eh, Ed?" Oswald shrugged. "But it is for the best; I was becoming increasingly bored."

Oswald yawned and considered the marquee again while he lolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek. "I need a new game," he lamented. "In the meantime . . ."

He reached down and retrieved Ed's phone. "Look! I have the set!" Oswald joyfully held up both phones—Ed's and Anne's—as if he had just won a silent auction and was bragging to the losers about his prize. He slipped the two phones into one of his jacket pockets. Ed heard them clink together and kept his eyes on the object Oswald held in his other hand.

"What? _This_?" Oswald held up the pistol crossbow. "Oh, this is just for fun. Goes with the theme of the game . . . Marco Polo, Chinese myths, revenge . . . makes me comparatively giddy!" Oswald wrinkled his nose and did a happy shiver before removing paper currency from inside his vest and placing it over Ed's heart.

"Here, hold this for me, would you, Ed? Makes an excellent mark. Helps my aim." Oswald smiled down at him as he loaded an arrow into its slot. "It is called 'hell money', used in a Chinese tradition with which I have become quite fascinated. It will probably confuse the cops—but that will be a treat to watch as well."

He took aim at Edward Ogilvy and offered him a parting condolence. "Know full and well that your love for the devil's drink did you in, old friend. You may have lived if not for that—goodbye, Ed. Oh, and my wife sends her regards."

Right before Oswald shot Ed in the heart, Ed made a hauntingly muffled sound that might have been a last-minute plea for mercy.

Or maybe he was cussing Oswald out.

_Guess I will never know_, Oswald mused as he shrugged, then kissed the top of Ed's head and walked away.


	80. Chapter 79

Chapter 79

"'Fara, I need a gun' or 'Fara, I need some lye' or "Fara, would you mind ever so much scooping up the visceral leftovers into this plastic bag', but never did the svelte black woman think she would ever hear her boss say: 'Fara, I need a crib'."

"Boy, you guys sure made quick use of that honeymoon. Where is Cassandra? Recovering?"

"Just . . . _get me a crib_! And the mashed carrots I ordered from the kitchen! And some warm milk!" he yelled into the handset. On the couch Iggy had discovered the joy of chewing on a pillow.

"Is that milk for _you_ or . . .?"

"_Just do it _and be glad that not only are your skills _rare_ and _superb_, but that I am _too scared of you_ to retaliate against you for teasing me!" The boy looked up at Oswald, tears forgotten, and clapped his hands before squealing "Da!"

Fara asked, "What was that?"

"Mouse."

"You know I love you, boss, and have the upmost respect for you." Oswald could hear the smile in her voice. "Will you be wanting a change of diapers too?"

"Dammit!" Oswald hung up the phone and called Cassandra on his cell. He was overly cheerful when he heard her voice. "Sweetheart!" The child laughed at him.

"Love of my life!" She answered, matching his enthusiasm.

"_What-cha doin'_?" Iggy crawled to him and Oswald had to keep pushing him back so he would not fall off the couch. He kept mouthing "stay" to the child, but it was not working for some reason. He finally gave up and took a seat beside the boy who was much in awe of Oswald's nose and decided it needed to go in his mouth.

"Picking up some supplies for my newest project."

"Which is?" he asked, pushing Iggy away from his face.

"Umbrella mini-grenade launcher." He would have broken out into interpretive dance if he had been standing, but instead had to push Iggy away from his face again.

"Bodyguard with you?" he asked. Iggy grabbed his nose and drooled on his jacket. _Really_! thought Oswald. _This child has got moxie_!

"Yes."

"Good." He paused, and convinced Iggy the pillow was more fun to chew on.

"Did you need to tell me something, or pick up some things for you?"

"Mmmmmm . . . if I give you a list, do you promise not to ask why?" There was a _loooooong_ pause and Oswald was afraid the connection had been lost. He would have to slaughter someone at the phone company. "Cassandra? You there?"

"Okay. I'll bite. Give me the list."

Oswald took a breath and spit out his requests as if he were spitting out cooked bird. "_Two butcher knives. Some baby food. 3000 Rounds of 115gr FMJ 9mm bullets. Size medium diapers, I guess. A machete—the kind imported from any African nation will do. A baby bottle—no, make it two. And an RPG-7 rocket launcher or something like it. Okay, thanks, babe_!_ Love ya, bye_!" Click. He ended the call as soon as he could and waited for her to call back, which she did.

"Is there anything you want to tell me?"

Oswald pursed his lips. "Nothing comes to mind right off hand. No. Nope. But, I have a surprise for you." His fingers were splayed over Iggy's face who had lunged for Oswald's nose again but thought this game was also agreeable.

"No kidding. Do you want nipples with those bottles? Sometimes they do not come with nipples."

Oswald choked and shook his head to clear it. "Yes, sorry—my mind went elsewhere for a moment when you said that word." He heard her snicker on the other end. "Yes. Nipples. Nipples are _definitely_ a great idea."

She snickered again. "Okay, then. I will see you after a while."

"I will be here excitedly awaiting your presence." He had dropped his hands and the child was in his lap repeating the word "Da". Oswald regarded the boy as the tike grabbed for his nose or patted him upon his chest with his pudgy, perfect baby hands.

_Perfect_, thought Oswald. _Not like me at all_.

He really wished the child had not referred to him as "Da" already. It made him feel things. He had not wanted or even expected to get attached. Not like this. Not this soon. He was starting to think it was part of his nature to fasten himself to certain individuals immediately and not let go. He hated that.

_One more person for me to worry about_.

Oswald leaned his head back on the couch and listened to the baby chirp and make other strange noises that he was not quite certain how the boy managed to create. He raised his head to look at Iggy.

"We need to come to an understanding," he told him. Iggy made an exclamation as if he understood and waited for Oswald to speak again.

"You may eat the pillows. You are not allowed to eat the books." The child laughed as if Oswald's request was absurd. _Of course _he was going to eat the books. Silly, Daddy.

"You will _always_ have a parent or bodyguard with you. Maybe both. Probably all of us." This earned Oswald a smack to the nose. He paused and closed his eyes for a moment, tightening his lips. "You are a fighter. _I like that._ But . . ." Oswald frowned and sternly pointed his finger at him. "Do _not_ do _that_ again." The boy giggled.

"You are a survivor. Like me." Iggy smiled at him. Under his breath, Oswald murmured—more to himself than to the child, "_You are more mine than his after all _. . ."

A ghastly thought came to his head. There will be those whose sole intent will be to cause unjust harm to him—to his son, simply because the child was his, because he was a Cobblepot. _Kapelput._ Mistreated. Ignored. Teased. The child would have to learn early to be cunning. To be ruthless and clever. Looks could only go so far. He would need to be crafty. Be poised and self-confident. Learn to fool others. Throw everyone off balance. Live unafraid.

Oswald would show him how. Teach the infant what Oswald had to learn on his own. Tutor him in the unfair way that Gotham plays so that as the boy grows into manhood, he will know how to bob and counter and attack, regroup and attack again. _Yes, you will be heir to my throne_. Oswald nodded his head and Iggy grabbed his hair.

_His _son would not snivel or beg for _anything_. Or be afraid of his father. Or hate him.

His son. _His_ son. Oswald felt his heart constrict. _It is because this child is different_, Oswald told himself. _He is not like the others—the spoiled, who never knew want; the beloved, who never experienced neglect; the privileged—who were ever respected, whether or not they deserved it._

Oswald shifted his position, sitting up straight, and taking Iggy by both shoulders, looked directly into the tot's face.

"_This part is very important._ Make sure you understand, my son—_If you are going to survive in Gotham, you are going to need to be smart._" He tapped his temple, then Iggy's. "I will teach you to be shrewd. To outplay others. To protect yourself. To get what you want. What you deserve." He paused and thought of Cassandra. "What you desire." A besotted half-moon of an infatuated grin spread across his face, his head temporarily lost in the clouds. "Someone you love." Still in a daze, he looked at Iggy. "Who loves you back. It is possible, you know. I never would have believed it."

His eyes refocused upon the child, who had been paying close attention, raptly concentrating on Oswald's performance, before giving an impressive retort in the form of a yawn. He fought the urge to lay his head upon Oswald's chest, but eventually gave in to sleep, his head slowly tilting forward—followed by the occasional rebellious jerk that returns the mind like a rock flung from a slingshot back into consciousness—until his curly mane reached the soft sanctuary of Oswald's vest. It had been a trying day, and for the first time in a long while, the little boy felt safe. His tummy was full, his face dry, no one was hurting him, and he was warm.

"Yes, my boy. I will teach you. We will teach you." Those words were Iggy's lullaby.

Upon Cassandra's return to the club, she asked Gabe to take her supplies, and the firearms and blades Oswald had requested, and place them in their makeshift armory. She gingerly opened the door to Oswald's office not sure what she would find. What she did encounter both shocked her and caused to heart to melt. She dropped the bags of infant supplies to the floor in disbelief.

Oswald was relaxed on the couch, wearing orange goo on his cheek, shirt, and jacket. His eyes were droopy and his smile, tired.

"_Surprise_. I had originally considered getting you a kitten."

"Were they out?" Cassandra looked upon the form of a sleeping child pressed against her husband's side.

Oswald laughed, but Cassandra's attentions were centered on the little dozing cherub. "We are _really_ going to have to talk about the things you have done and what led up to this."

She grabbed a few tissues off the desk and proceeded to wipe the carrots from Oswald's face and clothing. Funny how he wore all the food with not so much as an ounce smeared on the toddler.

He nodded at her suggestion and then in a panic blurt out: "There was no other woman! You were my first—my only!"

"_Shhhhhh _. . ." she hastily tapped him on the lips. "You'll wake the child. I didn't mean—."

"Are you mad?" he whispered.

"No," she responded, caught off guard again. "I'm surprised. I was left with the impression that you did not want any children." There was a pause.

"He needed a chance," was all Oswald said, looking at the tot.

"He's beautiful." Cassandra sat on the other side of the boy and lightly passed her hand over the child's curly blond hair. Oswald beamed as if he had just given birth to boy himself.

"He is, isn't he?" he said, casting his attention back down to the child. "An infant Adonis."

Cassandra smiled. "Just like his father." Oswald looked up, confused, then exhaled and blushed as he smiled and adverted his eyes.

"Hardly," was his response. She leaned over and kissed him on the mouth.

"You taste like carrots."

"I had to show him it was good. I actually felt bad about lying. Can you believe_ that_?" he asked, leaning towards her, wide-eyed and amused at himself. She had to kiss him again.

"Does my new pet have a name?"

"Ignatius. Iggy for short. But I would rather not address him with that moniker," he sneered.

"Mmmm . . ." Cassandra thought. "We could just call him Boo."

"Boo? Why Boo?"

"Because he was a _surprise._"

Oswald softly chortled and shook his head in amazement. "Clever lady. Boo it is."

Cassandra got up and spread a blanket in the corner of the room before surrounding its edges with pillows.

"What are you doing?" he asked. She carefully lifted the child from the crook of Oswald's arm and placed him on the blanket. "_We cannot return him_," he explained. She heard the alarm in her husband's voice and glanced back to grin at him.

"And, we're not, he is ours now, but we _need_ to talk." Oswald did not like the sound of those four words. _We. Need. To. Talk_. "Or, more importantly—_you_ need to talk. To me. No more waiting. You said you would tell me everything."

"_Well, I_—is now the right time, do you think?" Oswald whined. He gestured to the child in the corner and wrinkled his nose.

"Talk _quietly._ I am not comfortable with the thought of Boo being out of our sight."

He shrugged like a naughty schoolboy who _why no, ma'am, I don't know anything about the smoke bombs in the boys toilet_. "Then perhaps we should converse later."

"You know, sweetheart, there always seems to be a _later_ and not a _now_ when it comes to this topic." She walked past him.

"Then where are you going?"

She locked the office door and attempted to push a small but heavy writing desk that lined the wall in front of it. He watched her struggle for a while, proud of her stubbornness. She huffed and placed her hands on her hips like she knew all along she would not be able to move it. "Stop laughing at me," she told him, even though he had not as much peeped, but held up his hands in protest. However, he nearly lost it when she grabbed a captain's chair and shoved its back underneath the doorknob. It titled forward—being too short—when she turned back to Oswald. Holding back that guffaw was like someone desperately trying to hold in an atomic fart.

_She makes me laugh. She is scrumptious. What a hoot. I love her._

"No one is leaving this room until all the cards are on the table," she said, gesturing emphatically with her hands.

_Oh, Jove. I knew it was coming sooner or later. I was hoping later. Like when we were dead_.

She very seriously—with much airs about being professional—pulled up the matching leather chair to Oswald until they were very nearly knee to knee.

"Let's begin," she said in a _this-is-a-safe-space_ therapist voice. He wanted to laugh at her again, but instead looked down at his hands and started peeling away his paper thin nails. She took his hands and held them, waiting.

Oswald took a deep breath and then began to spill his guts as he had spilled so many others.

"Ogilvy. It is his surname," he said, gesturing to where Boo slept before placing his hand back in hers. "His father was supposed to secure your farm for you, but failed, giving the money instead to Jeb Green. We both know how that turned out, with Jeb, I mean, but his death does not count, well, because you know, _obviously_ you _know_ . . ." He rolled his hand in the air and then retook hers. "I discerned that Ed would come for you after I . . . after I . . ." He cleared his throat. "After I took something from him that _he did not care one iota for, of which he held no affection_—it is prudent that you have this foreknowledge before I press onward." But he did not press on, so Cassandra gently prodded.

"Boo? You took Boo."

"Before Boo." He wrinkled his face and nervously rubbed the back of his neck, not because he had any regrets about what he had done, but he just did not know deep down in his heart how Cassandra would respond.

"His wife and brother-in-law—who by the way, _was not_ supposed to be with her at time of said killing." He felt Cassandra jerk. "It was supposed to be Ed. If Ed had been with Ann—that was his wife's name—Ed would have died that night instead of Ann's brother. I arranged the hit. I did not do it personally. _Does that count_?" Cassandra made no remark, so he continued, sick to his stomach.

"I _deposed_ of a lieutenant who was loyal to Maroni—he was going to kill me, and I ordered the removal of an informant who actually reported to Fish, an umbrella boy—_so, wait_—that may not count either. I do not think that should count, since I did not do the actual killing—and he would have ratted me out, securing my death warrant." He waited, but still she did not speak, so he swallowed hard and continued. "Two who worked for Falcone and Loeb, who _actually tried_ to kill me. An old man who made a move _as if_ to kill me—he reached for his knife, but I got it first. That one just . . . it happened so fast. I . . ." he sighed. "I had to kill him or it may have been my body they found in the waters, not his. _If_ they found him. I do not even know." He released one his hands from hers and ran it through his hair before redepositing into her warm hold. He took a deep breath, puffing up his cheeks and blowing out the air, along with it, his confessions.

"Um, there was a very rude patron, some Russian guys with guns—who were trying to kill me—you had been right about the flamethrower, if you recall . . . because you are . . . so good . . . at, um, being proactive . . ." He paused, hoping sincere flattery might help his case. It did not seem to make a dent.

He nodded and continued, leaning forward suddenly and snapping his fingers. "Oh! You would like this one—_approve even_, I dare say!" Cassandra cast a backward glimpse over her shoulder to ensure the noise had not startled Boo. "_And, therefore, REALLY should not count_!" Oswald was sure she would approve of this monster's disposal.

"_Shhhhh_ . . ." she reminded him, his zeal getting the better of him. Oswald nodded, and whispered, "_Oh, yes, of course_" before stealing a glance to the corner. He leaned forward.

"I rid the world of vile man who preyed in the most insidious ways upon the weakest. I will not go into detail, but you can imagine, so . . . yeah. I used a cleaver! . . . Right down . . . the middle . . ."

He gestured with one hand, felt foolish, and tried to recapture her hand again. As he cleared his throat, she placed her palm on the side of his face and nodded, before grasping his fingers and giving them a squeeze. _She approves_! _I knew she would_. Encouraged, he proceeded.

"Also! There was another hitman—but I did not personally kill him, so let us just not count that one. Oh, and there was your driver and Conner who went on a suicide mission. Of course, they did not realize at the time that it was a suicide mission." He laughed nervously, and then in all seriousness asked, "Does that count?"

Without pausing for an answer, because he knew was not forthcoming, Oswald dove headlong into the rest of his soul-bearing narrative. "Two pathetic preppies who I thought had befriended me, but they had not. I had been foolish. Trusting. They were so ugly in their words. How they spoke to me. The way they looked at me." He hoped the sadness of his words would sink in, gain sympathy, so Oswald waited a beat before he spoke again. He leaned back and threw his arms wide. "I blew up a warehouse full of Falcone's goons. Actually that _really_ does not count. Maroni's thugs shot them." He leaned forward and burrowed his brows, thinking. He scratched his chin and hoped that Cassandra would retake his hands. When she did, he could have cried with relief.

"Oh, but I did orchestrate a robbery at Maroni's restaurant—I worked there. Some of his men died during the heist. But, I did not do the actual killing. So never mind, that does not count either."

Cassandra closed her eyes and suppressed a laugh.

"Although I _did_ have to kill one of his employees in order to _even get the job_. There was not a staff opening at the time, you see. Then the flower messenger, which you already know about, _and I just wanted to thank you again for_ . . ." He waved his gratitude away when he saw the look on her face.

_I am losing her._

"Never mind." He wiggled his hand back into her grasp. She closed her fingers around his. He could feel her pulse. It was racing. But, she had wanted to know.

"And, there was another thug that worked for Fish, who threatened me, so I had to free him from his life of crime." He tried to grin at his feeble attempt at humor. "The scallywag owed her money." Oswald was not sure why he felt the need to add that last piece of data. "I . . . do not know why I said that."

"Oh, yeah, I cut off a musician's finger for true love. Not his true love. She left him. So I actually did him a favor. She did not love him. Her grandmother made me do it. I did not kill him _nor_ did I kill the asshole who left you in the elevator. You asked me not to kill him, and _see_—I did not do it! You are having such a positive influence on me already! Ha!" He shook his head and asked her, "Too soon?"

He was emboldened when he saw her bite her lip in order to unsuccessfully keep the edges from turning up into a grin. "There was a young woman who was killed by Falcone's hand, and I regretfully had a part in that, but her demise was unexpected, truly. I really did not know what Falcone's reaction would be to her betrayal. I genuinely thought he loved her. I _thought_ he would kill Fish."

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the names and faces that rolled about in his head. "Am I forgetting anybody," he said more to himself than to Cassandra, who would not have known the answer anyway. "Oh, yeah, almost forgot. I killed Ed and his . . . female companion who was an addict and neglected Boo. They said such horrible things to him. They both neglected our child. The alcohol and drugs were their babies. That is how we have him. That is how we have Boo." He smiled, pleased with himself by that last disclosure.

Cassandra wrinkled her brows just a smudge (Oswald held back from nibbling the crease) and shook her head, like there were things inside that needed to fall out. "Those are all the people you have killed or had a hand in killing in your lifetime?" Oswald's face fell. "The people in the photo album—how many of them are dead?"

"A few," he answered in a frozen whisper.

"How?"

"Most by grace of time. Others . . ." He let the answer hang there. "They tortured me. All my life. Nothing but pain and sorrow. How I never killed myself instead is a mystery." She kissed him.

"I am so glad that you did not chose that path. But I must ask you, Oswald." She looked down at their entwined hands. "Should I ever cross you, will I be added to your list?" She brought her eyes slowly back up to his.

"No," he said forcefully, almost with disgust. "No, of course not."

"Or Boo?"

"No! And _you_ should know better," he snarled. "_Or shall I remind you of what you were planning to do with my mother._"

"_For your own good_," she hissed back. "And, besides, I did not go through with it because I knew it would ruin our relationship and _I said I was sorry_." Neither spoke.

"I would never hurt you or Boo," he reiterated. When she did not respond, he lamented, "You do not believe me."

"Yes."

"Yes—you do not believe me, or . . ." She placed her fingertips over his mouth, a slight smile upon her face.

"Stop," she said. "I believe you. It is just a lot to process."

"Are you going to leave me now? Stop loving me?"

"No, of course not . . ."

Cold doubt entered into his mind again. It had a way of doing that right when he was feeling happy. Happiness never seemed to last long for Oswald Cobblepot. Even briefer were the moments it visited him in the first place. He leaned forward and rested his forehead in both their hands, rocking to and fro. "How can I be sure?" he asked in a broken voice, mainly to himself.

"I give you my word, Oswald. I have already given you my heart, my body . . . I don't know what else . . . or how . . ." He nodded into their fingers and pressed his lips to the palms of both her hands. His eyes were bright with unshed tears.

"_Oswald_ . . ." she cooed, brushing her fingers against his eyes, causing the tears to escape by the pressure. She wiped them away. "My lovely gypsy boy."

"Why do you call me that?"

"You seem to be forever wandering. Searching for home. Not out here, in the real world . . ." she gestured to the space around them. "But in here." She put her hand over his heart. "Don't wander anymore. I would miss you." His mouth turned downward and he leaned forward to invite an embrace from her, with which she was happy to oblige.

Later in the wee hours of that morning, when the cribs had been put together, yes, two—one in the bedroom, one in Oswald's office but hidden behind a mahogany room divider, you know, to keep up the illusion of blood-thirsty, merciless destroyer of all those who dare to oppose him—Cassandra racked her brain to find a way to assuage Oswald's fear. He was busy at his desk and Boo, who had been fed again (and changed—inducing a worthy throw-up moment) and was asleep in the crib in the office. Gabe had been sent out to retrieve diaper rash crème. He said he would do anything for babies. That softie. Cassandra asked him to pick up two baby monitors. Her motherly instincts had kicked in and she was now officially running on "mess with my kid and I will kick your ass" mode. Like most mothers.

She knew what she wanted to say to reassure Oswald, but not how to say it. Not in a language that Oswald would really appreciate, one to which he could fully respond.

She stretched and sighed, glancing about the room, her eyes stopping on the quote on his wall. She then remembered the quote in the bathroom. They were both Shakespearean. A memory came to her mind of a sonnet she had ignored learning in high school years ago because she had been too busy flicking a cigarette lighter inside her metal desk to see if the steel would melt and had not paid attention.

Cassandra frowned. The quote in its entirety escaped her, but a few words keep springing around in her mind like bouncy balls and she decided to seek them out using Oswald's never-ending supply of leather-bound books that stood like sentinels, defending the shelving that lined the walls. She easily located a collection of Shakespeare's sonnets and searched out the poem she wanted.

Cassandra leaned across the desk to her husband and grabbed a Sharpie, at the same time whispering, "Come to bed in a few minutes. And, don't forget Boo."

He looked at her through sleepy, sad eyes and gave her a tired grin. "Okay."

She stood in front of their bedroom wall—which had moments before been bare—with her hands on her hips. The lettering was not near as beautiful as the ones in the other two rooms, did not even come close, even slanting a bit upwards to the right, but it got the point across in a way she hoped Oswald would understand.

Then she got ready for bed, opening the window just a space to make sure the marker smell was gone before her two men arrived.

When Oswald walked in a few minutes later, with Boo in one arm, still sound asleep, he stopped dead in his tracks and sucked in his breath.

The light was on in the bathroom and shone into the room to perfectly illuminate the wall in their room. On it Cassandra had written Sonnet 116, with a minor adjustment in the last line:

"Let me not to the marriage of true minds  
Admit impediments. Love is not love  
Which alters when it alteration finds,  
Or bends with the remover to remove:  
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,  
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;  
It is the star to every wandering bark,  
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.  
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks  
Within his bending sickle's compass come;  
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,  
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.  
If this be error and upon me proved,  
I never writ, nor no (wo)man ever loved."

Oswald laid Boo in his crib and covered him up, before shutting the window. He stood in front of Cassandra's lovingly crafted mural and read it again. Then he turned to stare at Cassandra. Her eyes were open. She was watching him. Without bothering to take anything off, including his shoes, he crawled into bed and wrapped himself around her, his mind finally at ease.

She embraced him, and he could breathe again.


	81. Chapter 80

Chapter 80

The next couple of days passed in a whirl of carousel colors: blue peacefulness, yellow joy, green laughter, red passion, and brown diapers. Years later, when Oswald would look back on this period of his life, he would remember the absolute contentment, the unchecked bliss of those very few, much missed, terribly short-lived days. So different from the days he ended up living.

Or, more appropriately—existing through.

During _that _sad time, when he would sit as king upon his throne, in his mansion full of things and hired servants, he would recall interludes in smaller rooms above Oswald's, with its leaky pipes and hidden map, and push away the knowledge that he was much richer then, than he was now. _What folly_!

When being chauffeured in his bulletproof stretch limousine, he would long for a wobbly walk through the city, one arm linked through Cassandra's, leaning on her for support—_she will not let me fall_—and the other carrying Boo while his mother flitted about them, smoothing down hair and tolerating his better half.

At the Iceberg Lounge, while surrounded by fawning villains, fake friends, and terrified victims, Oswald would take a moment to escape into the stillness of his office where he would pull up a picture, one stored in a hidden file that he would convince himself every day that he was going to delete, and stare at the only photograph he had of his entire family, all of them together in one unflattering selfie: himself, Cassandra, Boo, Gertrud, Gabe, and Fara.

He would try unsuccessfully to forget, but the memories would come pummeling back to him like flesh let loose from a girdle or an avalanche unleashed, the result of a distant echo. He would reminiscence about having all those he loved best and held dearest gathered around him, safe, in that one moment, an image frozen onscreen and in his cerebral photobook, as still as his heart and the ice sculpture downstairs. He would look back upon his steady rise to power, all the puzzle pieces fitting perfectly together, without question, to form the picture that he wanted. Able to claim his prize that was due him and present it to those he loved, individuals who had been loyal. It was as if his former life, up until then, was trying to make up for itself, apologize and pay restitution for Oswald's dismal beginnings.

And then, when Oswald was feeling his darkest, with absolutely no strength to leave his bed, let alone execute anybody—when even those diversions failed to give him gratification, he would allow himself to think of four days in April, long ago, when he was alone with _her_. Oswald would welcome the torture, enduring the punishment of trying to feel her phantom face under his fingertips, to recreate the sound of her laughter, and pretend he could smell gardenias—a flower he had stopped buying and avoided at all costs.

Fighting the obsession to hear her voice and losing pitifully, he would collapse, retrieving the recording on his phone—_today will be the day, I will delete this too, with the next upgrade perhaps, or maybe not, perchance another day_—and play back her words, the ones he had stolen so that she could operate the map that lit her up like a rainbow in his old office at Oswald's.

But right now, _right now_, he had no worries of days to come. Everything was perfection, and since Oswald had never experienced that before—he thought it was just the change of tide for him.

_Better things to come._ The toast with which Falcone had been impressed, and Maroni had wanted to punch him for, had come true. He had spoken the words into the universe and the universe had obeyed.

He had not realized becoming king would come at a price.

What would he have done if he had truly known what the future held? Spirited away with those closest to him? Hide his name? Hide hers?

Even through his heartache, it was better that Oswald never had a chance to decide, just in case the answers to those questions were too awful to face.

But such things never crossed his mind in this brief chapter of his life, as he sat happily beside Cassandra on the leather couch in his office, inspecting the books—well, the figures that he reported to the IRS—and not getting very much done as she played with his hair. Her legs were gathered underneath her and Boo was leaning back on them watching his father. The child's eyes lit up when the dark-haired man addressed him.

"Trust me," Oswald said to him as he expounded on the ills of running a business—which he blatantly enjoyed—emphasizing the importance of hiring an accountant who was smart enough to hide money from the government but stupid enough to get caught stealing from you too. He made a mental note to have a chat with the future buffet for worms.

The little boy laughed and went back to chewing on his plastic book. Cassandra placed her arms around Boo in a backwards hug and kissed the top of the boy's head.

"It's true," she told him, as the child titled his head back to gaze up at her. "Your father is a very intelligent man." Boo cooed and grabbed at her hair—the raven curls tickling his cheeks.

Cassandra's praise caused Oswald to flex his shoulders and sit up straighter. She looked into his eyes—those bright blue orbs that changed from sapphire to aquamarine to blue again depending on his mood—and found that she had just forgotten whatever else she was going to say. She was sure she was going to ask a question to which she wanted an answer, but—as always—his eyes had the power to render her speechless and fog her mind, a proper testament to the man who could seduce her with just a glance.

She blinked a few times to clear her head and then remembered what she wanted to ask.

"What were you going to tell me? That evening on the farm? When we were doing the dishes and you leaned in to me as if you were going to tell me secret. Do you remember? You walked away." He grinned and closed his laptop, setting it aside.

"I do," he nodded. He looked again to Boo. "Pay close attention, son. Watch your dad as he puts the moves on your mother, smooth as jazz—" Oswald looked at Cassandra. "But as honest as a mirror—which always shares its own opinion, mind you." He gently poked Boo's tummy, making the boy giggle and clap his hands.

Oswald leaned towards Cassandra. "I was going to say that you made me believe that I was a better man than who I really am. You still make me feel this way—think this way . . ." It was one of those moments where Cassandra wanted to be absorbed into Oswald's skin, the two of them melting into each other like matching candles set aflame, one pressed against the other.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"How was I supposed to reveal a confession that pulsated with such desperate candor . . . _longing_, and risk rejection or worse—_scorn_? I could not do that face to face, not then." He looked down and shook his head. "Not at that moment. Which was why I wrote the letter and tried to sneak away." He slowly raised his eyes to her, they were sparkling. "Do you still have that letter close to your heart?" Oswald asked, smiling like a mischievous imp.

"I do," she replied, glittering back at him and hoisting a silver chain from between her breasts. On the end of the chain was a good-sized silver locket. She opened it revealing a picture of Oswald on one side and one of Boo on the other, then she twisted a knob and a secret compartment popped open to allow discovery of his love letter, which had been folded and rolled up into a miniature scroll to fit inside.

Oswald wished that he had encompassed the foresight to get her that piece of jewelry. _She probably got it the old-fashioned way,_ he thought. _By actually buying it_.

He scrutinized the weight of the locket in his hand and decided it could perfectly hide a tracking device. He looked up when he felt Cassandra's fingers touch the side of his face.

_Wow_! _Look at that beauty_! he thought. _What does she see in me_?

Bullock had asked him that same question not too long ago. Oswald had thought about it for moment and shrugged, blocking the sarcasm that wanted to come out and play, presenting instead a truthful response. "I do not know the answer to that." He had offered, sporting a sheepish grin. Oswald had scratched his jaw, which was jutted partially sideways, and rubbed the back of his neck. "I really do not know. Maybe it is not what she sees in me, but what I see in her."

"Which is what?" Bullock wanted to know.

"Which is everything."

_Everything_.

Why he had allowed himself to be vulnerable at that moment, he did not know. What good would it do him in the future? At least Bullock had not responded with a quip. He had only nodded, and then went back to questioning Oswald about the dead waitress.

Cassandra brought him back from that memory. "You, my darling, are exactly who I want and how I want you," she said to him. Oswald closed his hand around the locket and pulled her forward to plant a kiss upon her mouth. This caused Boo to squeal in delight and clap his hands again.

When the couple was not playing with their child, or following the television news regarding the gang war—Oswald especially enjoyed the commentaries given by clueless "experts" and fully understood now why serial killers deep down wanted everyone to know who they were because of their cleverness in averting the law—_Me_! Oswald wanted to yell. _I am the one who orchestrated this war, you morons_!—Cassandra and he would pour over the journals searching for anything that would give them better insight to the person or persons they were up against, or hints on how to break the code.

Oswald knew someone who might be able to help with the riddle, but the man did not understand the concept of personal space. Did Oswald really want to pursue that? He massaged his forehead in frustration. Of course he did. He had no other choice. He had to protect Cassandra. He had to protect his family. This oddity might also be able to figure out the mystery of the rabbit hole—the hidden tunnels at the courthouse—particularly, how to get into that locked, unseen door. Could the man be trusted, or threatened, or bribed? Oswald would have to find out.

In the meantime, the incendiary umbrellas were coming along nicely. There was one with a medium-sized tank that fit over the shoulder and under one arm, and the other one that had only a small canister attached to it. That one offered just a puff of a fireball—a tiny stream, for those moments when you just wanted to make a point, not kill someone. But they, like the others—the bullet-resistant umbrella, the many-lethal-gases umbrella, the umbrella that was actually a spinning saw—were still under development, with more testing needing to be done. It would not be wise to be caught in the middle of a battle with malfunctioning raingear.

While watching the news one night, Oswald was especially delighted with an explosion on the docks that according to news sources, not only revealed a trafficking ring, but effectively shut it down. He and Cassandra enjoyed the shocked, burned faces of the runners and johns as they were put on display and pranced in front of flashing bulbs and hungry camera lenses to be exposed across varying screen platforms throughout Gotham.

The tools the Cobblepots had needed to get the job done had only set them back $5,000. But it was charity after all. They decided they would not take a tax right-off on that particular donation. It had been too much fun.

Also! How wonderful it was that James Gordon, the FBI, and other law enforcement agencies had gotten a tipoff at just the right time. Any earlier, and they might have been toast themselves. Of course, what followed across the airwaves and fiber optic cables was more opinions about the warring families and who actually ran the disturbing outfit. Knowing this might determine who planted the exploding devices, which at this point, was only heresy and speculation. The fire marshal and bomb squad and a whole litany of important people with important titles would have to investigate to see what actually caused the destruction. Oswald had to bite his tongue to keep from calling into the news desk and screaming into the receiver, "_It was me_!"

_Sigh_. His day would come. Soon.

Yes. It would come. That day would mark the beginning of the ending for Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, while giving birth—or more accurately, death itself—to a new man and moniker.


	82. Chapter 81

Chapter 81

"Splendid," said Oswald as he pressed "End Call" on his cellphone.

"It worked?" asked Cassandra.

"Beautifully. We can pick up the 'adoption' papers on Monday. Everything is arranged."

Two more days had passed and Oswald with Cassandra's help had convinced Falcone that a certain judge was ready for retirement.

He was quite old, it was true, but his mind was still sharp.

However, when little seeds of doubt are planted, massive overgrowth is possible—like kudzu that just keeps crawling over flowers and trees, smothering them to death. This is what happened when it was suggested that perhaps the mind of this judge was faltering—_should any dementia set in and the poor fellow honestly cannot remember which way to sentence, or whether or not to dismiss a case altogether._ It had not helped that Oswald had started a rumor about the judge, whispering that the good man was becoming senile and it may affect the outcome of future cases, if it has not tainted those that have been ruled on _already_.

_Besides_, Oswald reasoned, _the man deserves a break_. How many years had he served on the bench? He could spend his time relaxing now. No need to kill him when I can retire him instead. Enjoy your freedom, my friend. Take up a hobby.

Rumors spread quickly through the city of Gotham, like the flu, and it was within a few hours of dinner with the Cobblepots that Falcone had called Mayor James to retire a certain criminal court judge and appoint a failed attorney presently working as a dissatisfied clerk of court. Of course, this happened after Oswald had visited the clerk, who had married Cassandra and him, to innocently file adoption papers—_compleeeetely legit _and refile a "corrected" birth certificate—no questions asked. However, Oswald had counted on the clerk to be as just as crafty as he was and was not disappointed. The man had stated that he would finish the rest of the "legal" process as soon as the call for his appointment came through. It was irritating, but Oswald had expected it. The clerk said he would bypass any other provisions that would hinder the Cobblepots from keeping Ignatius "Boo" Ogilvy for themselves, renamed after his _true_ Da.

Oswald had actually hated his name growing up, being the target of jokes when the kids got creative with the pronunciation of his first name, the most memorable being "Ass-wad" or "Ass-waddle", the later his epithet from junior high due to his portly physique. The extra weight caused him to look as if he was clumsy in his stride. He chose to ignore the fact that it was also because his butt would move from side to side, resembling the backend of a duck as it walked away.

The introduction of a new toy on the market also did not help his cause. _Look!_ someone would point at him and yell. _Ass-Weeble wobbles, but he doesn't fall down_!

Well, not until he was pushed, anyway.

It had taken a strong amount of willpower for Oswald to stop eating the delicacies that were a staple of his culture—to cut back on the starches and sweets. He had changed his diet to mostly seafood cooked in light oils and, for a time, bypassed desserts completely, much to the alarm of his mother who was always trying to spoon bread pudding down his throat. But on occasion, after triumphantly losing another five or ten pounds, Oswald would bend to his weakness: pastries—anything baked—cakes, pies, cannoli, all of it!—only allowing himself a small portion. He could tell anyone who asked where each bakery was located throughout Gotham. Even the bad ones. He had spent so much time hiding in them, eating his feelings.

During those years, he had snuck out of the apartment at night, scurrying down the fire escape to the beckoning asphalt and traversed the city, first walking, then running, to hurry his weight loss, the foggy, lamp-lit streets looking like something out of a Victorian thriller or a 1950s detective film. His mother would have been fraught if she had known he was roaming the dark corners of Gotham at that age. Of course, she hated it now too. It was through those lonely, determined nights that Oswald was introduced to the baser characters of Gotham.

Eventually those hurtful names that he had been called fell away as did his cellulite, only to be replaced with a new title, made worse by the injury Fish bestowed upon him. He knew he would never be able to run again. It had been such a freeing experience, the closest he had ever come to flying. He missed it very much.

Cassandra insisted as did his mother, that his name was distinguished and should live on—a decision on which the women both agreed, surprising and pleasing Oswald with their common ground. He had thought about "Richard" or "William", such kingly names, but bent to the will of his two ladies, but not without some hemming and hawing—making a show of not being sure . . . but secretly, COMPLETELY, _FEROCIOUSLY!_! delighted.

Cassandra had told him that they, as Boo's parents, would request that the teachers address him as "Chess", short for Chesterfield, and if they didn't, "Well," she had said, her leg turning outward. "We will just have ourselves a little parent-teacher conference, won't we?" Oswald's eyes had lit up at her implied threat, and he would have had her for lunch if his child and mother had not been in the room.

Boo was a charming, healthy infant and, no doubt, would grow to be a good-looking boy. He was already precocious—_obviously_, the _smartest baby_ ever born, _ever_! (Oswald knew _every_ parent said that about their own children, but it was actually a true statement for them. I mean, really. _Sheesh_.) With these attributes, Oswald doubted his youngster would ever want for friends or defenders, nor would he have to suffer the torture of being bullied. And, Cassandra had done exceedingly well deciding on the nickname "Chess". He really liked it. It was so fitting.

_I have a junior. Me! A JUNIOR! I will not cry_. Oswald swiftly turned to fiddle with something on his desk, when the full impact of the situation hit him. Yes, he was sure whatever curse he had been held hostage under had been lifted. Fairytales were real and wishes did come true.

He had certainly relished the look on Falcone's face when, upon inviting him to dinner in order to set his plan in motion, Oswald had introduced him to Cassandra. Boo was asleep in his crib, being guarded by Fara, yet Cassandra still had a protective hold on the monitor. It had been wonderful to surprise Falcone with his new bride. Oswald wondered if it had made the old man regret strangling Liza.

_You could have had it all too_, he thought. _Well, at least up until the moment that I had to kill you_. _But, still, having it all _for a moment_ is better than not having _any of it_ for a lifetime_.

While they dined with Falcone—the mob boss asking if there had been any trouble from Maroni's camp and was pleased when Oswald reassured him that there had not been any attacks on the club or anyone affiliated with it—another meeting was taking place within the walls of one of the oldest landmarks in Gotham, on the top floor of the Powers Hotel.

"It will be simple," came the authoritative voice. "The club does not open until early evening. Most staff will not have arrived. That is when we want to strike. Wait until Cobblepot is gone. Approach Cassandra and tell her you are with the insurance company. Tell her you have left several messages in order to arrange a meeting. Of course, that is a lie. No one must know about the meeting beforehand. Probably, she will say that her uncle had to cash out his life insurance to cover medical costs, which is true. Reassure her that this visit is regarding the insurance policy on her parents—it was the recent death of her uncle which brought this to our attention and apologize for the inconvenience. If she is a good hostess, she will offer you something to drink. Take it. It will encourage her to do the same. If she does not offer, then ask. Insist on not drinking alone. When the beverages are delivered, she will receive a phone call at the bar. When she gets up to take it, slip the powder into her drink. One sip will render her unconscious. Feign concern. Distract any person who may be guarding her by having them call an ambulance. When this happens, a group of inebriated college students will enter the establishment, the door having been propped open by you with a piece of paper upon your entrance into the building. Remove her from the property and bring her here."

The little owlet watched the proceedings with distaste. Her idea was better, but she never got the chance to share it because _nobody_ would listen to her!

All she had to do was pretend to be lost. The lady would bring her home and come inside to make sure she was okay. It was easier to disappear off the street that way. And, if the lady had someone with her, the Court had an entire trove of assassins at their disposal. _Right here_! Nobody would see a thing!

But _noooooo ._ . . don't listen to the kid. Would not want a more creative, less risky idea. By all means, devise one where you had to refer to notecards to execute it correctly.

She watched the female nod her head and reassure all those present that she understood and that it was an honor to be sent.

_Yeah, yeah, yeah_ . . .

The little girl hated the woman immediately, full of bitterness and resentment. She should be the one going on the mission. Her heart was in this, everybody else was just going through the motions like robots. Like old rickety robots who would not know a good upgrade when they saw one. She considered their idea more Atari pong mode instead of _any_ game for Xbox or PlayStation.

The disgruntled child sighed dramatically, rolling her eyes, before settling them back on the woman assigned to the task of spirting away Cassandra.

_I hope she kicks your butt_, she thought.


	83. Chapter 82

Chapter 82

Detective Gordon sent Oswald an _invitation_ to visit the precinct, which also fervently requested the presence of one of his sous chefs—the Asian man who had fussed at "Phil" for crossing Oswald and dismissing the boss's fiancé when she had phoned for help. Oswald considered ignoring the request as James had done when he had been invited to the grand opening of Oswald's. It was then that he thought perhaps James Gordon was not really his friend. Remembering his humiliation on the opening night of his club with absolutely no one he respected, besides his bodyguards and mother, to support him, Oswald chewed on the inside of his lower lip and considered giving Jim the cold shoulder, having him come to the club instead. He thought better of it—it would be easier to leave the precinct than it would be to get rid of the detectives if they came to Oswald's.

Apparently, Ed Ogilvy had been found with an arrow through his heart in front of the Monarch Theater and there were traces of white heroin on his corpse, the same drug that had been found in the body of a handless Jane Doe they had discovered slumped against a second-story shack. By the looks of the deceased, this had been a step up in her world.

The detectives had learned the hovel had been rented by Mr. Ogilvy and had found a couple of jars of baby food—expired, but did not know if it was because there had been a child with them or if someone had a special diet. Judging by the lack of teeth in Jane Doe, a benefit of longtime meth usage, they suspected it was hers.

The hell money found on Ed also made the cops think it was related to the Asian gang because of the cultural significance of the gesture, except tradition calls for burning of the notes. Maybe Ed owed them money or was dipping into the heroin himself. They knew the woman had been because of the overdose. They just could not figure out the hand thing—unless she had been so hyped up on the drug, she had cut it off herself without even feeling it. There were stories of people eating their own flesh and not realizing it when they were high on these drugs, so it was possible. Only problem with that theory was that there had been no trace of her flesh in her stomach. So where was her hand?

The cops would have never made the connection to Oswald's had it not been that this particular Asian gang specialized in the distribution of "China White", and one of the restaurant chefs had been affiliated with this specific mob. It seems the chef had owed an old colleague a favor and had been coerced into getting this person's son, Kim Jong, a job at Oswald's. Of course, the job had been a cover-up for more shady doings and now the young man was reported missing. This, along with the discovery of Ed and Jane Doe and the connection the drug had to this gang, raised questions to which Gordon and Bullock hoped Oswald and his employee would have the answers, but they did not count on it.

Oswald was curious as to what the cops knew and what he could stealthily find out about the matter, especially regarding the Ogilvys. Nobody was taking his son from him. Oswald would rather reveal information in a way that allowed him to manipulate the theories the police may obtain than have them discover evidence on their own and draw their own conclusions. At least with offering bits and pieces of data and contributing his unsolicited opinion, Oswald was still in control. He would bring Fara along to distract Bullock.

"Well, I have to hand it to you, James," said Oswald. "It was a brilliant deduction—pointing out the relationship between the gang and one of my most loyal employees. But, he has not been involved in gang activity for quite some time now. One of the tenets, and indeed the _purpose_, of my club is to give those poor souls who have lost their way, cruelly swallowed up by an uncaring world that has misled and enticed them into a life of crime from which they see no hope, no proverbial light at the end of the tunnel, a second chance. A sort of redemption, if you will. Oswald's is that light, that _hope_ in escaping a darkened life . . . to begin afresh, start anew. I extend to them that helping hand, Jim, while others . . ." he paused and held out an upturned palm in the policeman's direction. "Only offer a concrete floor and iron bars."

James sneered. "Huh. So you claim to be a kind of 'halfway' restaurant then, is that it?"

Oswald lit up, pretending to be impressed. "You get it, James Gordon! Yes—a 'halfway' restaurant instead of a 'halfway' house. I like that! You recognize my honest desire to help those in need, to give back to the community that has given me _so much_. That is why it is with utmost sincerity that I apologize. Truly . . ." Oswald placed his hand over his heart. "I regret that we could not be of service to you." He made his eyes as round and big as he could.

Detective Gordon squinted and tapped his pencil on top of his notepad. "Didn't you and Ed run in the same crowd? You two knew each other, both lackeys for Falcone, isn't that right?"

_Why, detective. I am so caught off guard right now. NOT_. Oswald blinked a few times and made a show of being stunned.

"I . . . I thought this was a missing person's matter," sputtered Oswald._ There! Do you feel you have the upper hand now, Jim? You are welcome._

"It is. It is also a _murder_ matter, so if you could—just answer the question. I'll repeat it. Did you and Ed know each other?"

"We knew _of _each other," Oswald corrected. "And, I am not sure I would agree with the term 'lackey'." Gordon just looked at him, waiting for him to continue. "I had no direct contact with Ed—_you know_ —the rules of hierarchy and all that—would not want to break rank. _But_, I _had_ heard through the grapevine that the man had a drinking problem and was stepping out on his wife."

Oswald feigned forgetfulness by burrowing his brows and raising a finger to his lips. "I cannot remember her name—his wife. Pity. But that aside, Ed had a violent temper, or so I have been led to believe. I understand he has a child—or, dare I say, _had_ a child. I do hope he has not committed an act of barbarity against the tot." He paused and looked away, shaking his head. "But, of course, that _is_ just _rumors_."

"What rumors?" asked James.

"Well, I . . . I do not want to encourage the spread of something untrue . . ." Oswald laughed inwardly at Jim's impatience. Truly, the detective was too easy to play. _Disappointing_.

"_Just tell me_," James demanded with a sigh. "Any little bit helps, and we always follow up on a legitimate tip."

Oswald nodded and leaned in. "Well," he confided. "Others close to Ed said he did not want the child and was given to tirades against the boy."

"You know it was a boy?" Oswald caught his mistake. He had not wanted Jim to know that he knew the gender of the child. Wanted to keep up the ruse of seeming distant and unconcerned—that he and Ed were merely acquaintances. But he dredged on. He had to plant the other seed.

"_Everyone_ knew," he recovered, nearly spitting out his answer. "It was common knowledge." He paused for effect and pretended to have an epiphany.

"You do not suppose he murdered the child, do you?" Gordon's eyes flickered and Oswald saw concern flash across his face.

_Seed planted_.

"I don't _suppose_ anything, "the detective stressed. "I investigate. And, I will look into this allegation."

_Yes, good. Mull over the idea, James. Let it seep through you like poison. Ask yourself—is it possible? Did Ed murder his own son? Perhaps in a drunken rage? Suspicion is just as pretty as a cold shiny blade, and every bit as ruthless_.

Oswald pressed on. "I should certainly hope there would be a thorough investigation. Accounts of these kinds of heartbreaking stories are just too copious. Tragic. I wonder if Ed had anything to do with his wife's death. Such a coincidence that she and the man she was with were gunned down in the same location that the Waynes were shot, do you not agree, detective? Makes one wonder if the real culprit was caught. Maybe it was Ed all along."

Gruffly James replied, "I do not believe the Waynes had any ties to Falcone's doings or Asian gangs."

Oswald shrugged, thinking the cop sounded like a bulldog. "_Of course, of course_ . . . but you wanted heresy and rumors, _I mean 'tips'_." He placed his hands on his hips and lolled his tongue against the inside of his cheek, before smiling and wiggling a finger at the man.

"It seems to me that these tips work to your favor. _Congratulations_, by the way!" Oswald shouted, grabbing Jim's hand and shaking it while he firmly planted the other hand on Jim's shoulder. Oswald enjoyed the man's sudden apparent discomfort.

_Ah, Jim. Ever full of podsnappery_.

"I am referring to the arrests you made in that human trafficking ring! Bet the FBI was impressed . . . Loeb . . . _the mayor even_! A detective of the Gotham City Police Department cracking a nonexistent case. Just walked right in and _poof_!—all the top runners, accountants, johns . . . all those vile worms, suddenly in cuffs—like magic . . . wave of the wand . . . sleight of hand. How _did_ you do it, Jim? Oh, that is right! An anonymous phone call—at least, that is what the news outlets continue to regurgitate. _Just think_, if this person who called in the tip had turned a deaf ear to rumors and innuendo, that particular operation may still be up and running."

"Not burned to the ground . . ." said James.

Oswald snapped his fingers once in glee. "Exactly! So maybe you should listen to gossip and heresy more often if you truly desire to bring justice to the downtrodden—no matter how distasteful the rumor, or who the downtrodden _really_ are." Oswald very nearly growled the last few words.

"True," Gordon said quickly, then changed the subject. "Rumor has it that the Pike brothers set fire to the warehouse."

For a moment, Oswald was taken aback, and then he broke into laughter. "The Pike brothers?" Oswald asked incredulously. "Oh, James—_you slay me_! Surely the police are savvy enough to realize the Pike brothers could not operate without putting their three heads together—_literally_! _It is how they learned how to use a straw_! They function on one brain that has been sliced into three pieces: daft, dull, and dim-witted, each entombed in a block of 'duh'. Now the sister," he said, pointing his finger his temple. "_That_ is the one about which you should worry. But, it is _only_ a rumor."

_Someday, when I write my memoirs, I will tell the world of all my exploits, not having to keep them hidden any longer_.

"Thanks for the tip," said Gordon.

"I try. Civicism holds a very _dear _place in my heart." _Sometimes I amaze myself that I do not vomit when I speak_. "Tell me, Jim. Did the leaders of the Asian gang confess to you anything you could use? I mean, obviously they have been exonerated, otherwise you would not have dragged me down here to question whether or not I had any involvement, unless of course—you could not dredge up the smallest of leads from them either."

Sometimes Oswald just _could not resist_ poking the bear. He really wished Cassandra was here to witness his chutzpah.

Detective Gordon did not answer right away. When he did, the only thing he said was, "Thank you for your time, Mr. Cobblepot."


	84. Chapter 83

Chapter 83

Cassandra was lying on her stomach on the floor of Oswald's office sketching out umbrella designs. Boo was beside her playing with his favorite stuffed animal and frequently sharing his opinion about the designs by either drooling on them or parading his toy across the paper. Gertrud sat beside him, alternately twirling her fingers around his blonde curls and bringing other stuffed toys to life by having them talk to each other. Cassandra forced herself not to grin at the silly voices Gertrud made. She watched her like a hawk, and when she could not be around, sent in somebody else to watch her like a hawk.

For a couple of days it had rained heavily and there was going to be a brief respite today. A stroll was in order and they were waiting for the sun to break through the gloom before heading outside for a couple of hours before the forecasted showers would start again. Either the meteorologists were very skilled at their craft or the entire city had accepted the damp weather as a permanent fixture. It was a running joke in Gotham's news centers—just predict rain, you cannot get it wrong. Probably why the Gotham meteorologists had won so many awards over the years for mistake-free forecasting.

The infant bag was sitting by the door, stuffed with snacks, juice, diapers, pepper spray, and a Glock. Everything a wee family needed for a friendly outing at Robinson Park. The sun had just started to elbow its way through the clouds, when Gabe came upstairs to let Cassandra know there was someone from an insurance company here to see her. Scooping up Boo in her arms, she rode the elevator down with Gabe and Gertrud, telling them she would catch up with them in a little while, for them to go ahead. This should not take long.

The woman waiting for her downstairs seemed surprise to see her from some reason as she handed Boo to Gertrud. She knew she could trust Gabe to tell her if her mother-in-law said anything derogatory to Boo, or about her or Oswald. Gabe seemed to enjoy playing secret agent. She waved to her son as they walked past the bar and out of her view before turning her attention to her guest.

"How may I help you?" Cassandra asked the visitor. "My uncle's insurance policy . . ." The woman did not let her finished. Mentioned something about her parent's policy instead, and flipped her hands around like wings. She introduced herself as Tawny Chouette and handed Cassandra her card.

_Wait. What? Oh, never mind. I misheard the last name._

Cassandra guessed Tawny was older than she, but possessed the enviable luxury of being one of those people whose true age could never be pinned down, not even with the subtle grays that were lost in her platinum hair. She was quite petite, with birdlike features, thin mouth, and fingers not much bigger. Cassandra was suddenly reminded of a Grimm Brothers tale centered on kidnapped children where the little boy fooled the witch into thinking he was too skinny to be dinner by sticking a fleshless bone between the bars of the cage she kept him in. The trick had worked, and the children eventually got away.

The witch died.

Cassandra continued to study the woman while she talked. Tawny was certainly living up to her name. Her tan tailored suit looked like cashmere and she wore several strands of pearls around her neck. They nearly blended into her egg-colored silk blouse. Even her shoes and purse were tan.

_Huh. Rabbit, oyster, bird, worm. Have I fallen down a hole or tumbled through a mirror? She is even blonde. Figures. I feel an omen coming on_.

The woman flicked her hands again and Cassandra tried not to stare at the diamond ring Tawny wore. The woman's fingers were so narrow and the diamond so bulky that it was hard to ignore—not because it was pretty, but because it was so obscene. Cassandra was sure she must have looked like one of those kittens on a YouTube video breaking their necks to watch a laser dot dance around the room. The rock was as big as an ice cube and could, no doubt, do as much damage as brass knuckles.

_Curiouser and curiouser! __Insurance agents must be making a killing these days. _

". . . and so that's why I'm here," Tawny concluded. Some of the staff was starting to trickle in, either slumping passed them like sloths on Benadryl or rambling loudly, paying no heed to their surroundings. Cassandra and Tawny learned way too much about some of their personal lives and jumped in their chairs when someone dropped a stack of dishes in the kitchen.

"Why don't we go upstairs to my husband's office where it is a bit quieter."

Cassandra asked the bartender to send them up iced tea. Oswald had started offering it sweet as well as unsweetened after he had carried out a trial run and a portion of his customers had approved of its taste.

"Is sweet tea all right?" she asked her guest, who nodded, her movement reminding Cassandra of a bird picking out the eye of its prey.

_Think we will take the stairs_, she decided, and upon reaching Oswald's office, left the door open. She would ask whomever brought up the drinks to stay.

Tawny reiterated that she was here to discuss the insurance policy her parents had left her that had not been cashed out yet. While speaking, one of Oswald's men brought up the tea, stuffing the last bit of a Reuben sandwich into his mouth, and almost tripped on the stuffed animal that Boo had left behind. Cassandra noticed and gasped, not for the safety of the man, but because she knew Boo would be distraught without his toy. She picked it up, excusing herself and asked the man to keep Tawny company before sprinting out of the office and down the stairs, hoping the little entourage had not gotten very far. On her way towards the exit, the bartender told her she had a call.

"It will have to wait," she said. The bartender relayed the message to the person on the other end of the line, then covered the mouthpiece and addressed Cassandra before she could slip out.

"He says it is a matter of life and death."

Cassandra growled and took the phone, but no one would answer her when she said hello.

Upstairs, the bodyguard who had doubled as waiter had a little problem swallowing the last bit of his sandwich and decided to sneak a swig of tea while the blonde, skinny lady had her back turned to him. She was on the phone in the far corner, away from him, nearer to the hidden crib. He did not know that moments before, as he was admiring Cassandra walk out of the room—Oswald would have had his hide if he knew what he dreamed about at night—Tawny had clicked open that outrageous ring and poured a tasteless powder into Cassandra's drink, which happened to be the glass he chose. It did not take him too long to pass out.

Tawny jumped and turned around when she heard him hit the floor. She swore. She did not have any more powder.

Downstairs, Cassandra frowned at the bartender and shrugged. "There's nobody there," she said, handing him back the phone. As soon as he placed it in the cradle, it rang again, and again it was for Cassandra.

"Hello?" she said, irritated. She had missed her shot to get the toy to Boo and was disappointed in herself for not just walking out the door. This insurance crap was _not_ more important!

"Hi, I am looking for Cassandra . . . _Cobblepot_?"

"May I ask who is calling?"

"Yes, I am so sorry. My name is Sheila Robinson." She told her why she was calling and named the insurance company that she was with. "You are a very hard woman to track down. We have been trying to find you since January. Somehow the policy for your parents had been shuffled and we have just discovered it on account of your uncle's passing. He had of course, cashed it in, but we keep files open for a couple of years after the client has cancelled the policy, just in case. When we received word . . . I am sorry, that sounds so crass. It's just . . . my condolences . . . and please accept my apologies in the apparent misfiling of your parents' information. Haly's Circus used us as well—still uses us."

Cassandra moved behind the bar so she would not have to pull on the cord. "I understand, and thank you. One of your representatives is here right now—Tawny Chouette." There was a pause.

"Who?" Sheila asked. Cassandra repeated the name, making sure she said it correctly.

"Ms. Cobblepot?" Sheila's voice had gone down to nearly a whisper, and in Cassandra's mind, the red flag that had raised itself earlier started waving. She had known something was not right. She should not have ignored her inclination.

"_Yeees_?"

"We do not have anybody here by that name. That person, whoever she is, she does not work for us in any of our offices." Cassandra had already started hanging up the phone, distantly hearing Sheila repeating her name and the bartender asking if she was okay.

"Mmmm hmmph," she hummed, indicating that she was just peachy.

Her neck prickled and heat worked its way up from her chest. Now may prove to be the time to indulge in her . . . _other interest_. After all, Tawny Chouette would not be missed at the insurance agency.

Her empathy shut off and Cassandra existed at this moment on pure instinct and rage, the adrenaline coursing through her body giving her a feeling of sudden empowerment—that familiar charge that told her limbs to prepare for fight.

It would be fun.

It was who she really was and wanted to be, at least for the moment.

_The rush_! That pure joy and crazed glee—contained, calculating, and determined. Amuck and focused at the same time. All of it mixed together, shaken not stirred, to create a master cocktail of controlled frenzy. She wished she could bottle it.

If it had not been for her new ears—the ears a woman suddenly inherits when she becomes a mother—she would not have heard the noise. It sounded like someone talking through a speaker at a fast-food drive through.

_Where was it coming from_? She moved back corner of her ivory cardigan from her hip to reveal the baby monitor receiver attached to her waist. It had become a regular part of her wardrobe, even when she was in the same room with Boo, and she turned it up. She could hear every word Tawny Chouette said.

_I've got you now, roadkill_, she grinned. _This ain't gonna be no Happy Meal and, no, you can't have it your way_.

Upstairs, Tawny swore into the mouthpiece of her cell phone. She had used all the powder she had brought with her in that drink. It was fit for Cassandra's body, not for ordinary vermin. For them, it was poison. For Cassandra, and others like her, depending on bodyweight and other personal factors, it was a helpful sleep aid.

"_What_ was that?" The voice on the other end asked.

"The stupid bodyguard drank the spiked drink and I have no more powder. Sweet tea by the way." She made a gagging sound—the same noise the bodyguard had made right before he toppled over. "He is probably dead," Tawny remarked with detached disdain. She kicked his foot and then retreated back into the corner, crossing her arms and hunching over as if that would help bring down the volume of her voice.

"This presents a problem," said the displeased person on the other end.

"I know."

"For you."

Tawny froze, but not out of fear. She was feeling impudent. There were things the Court had not told her. "Is that a threat?"

"It is survival of the fittest. You have proven to be weak. Weakness endangers us."

"It's not my fault the lout drank it," she hissed.

"This is not a child's game."

"Speaking of which—you did not mention she _had_ one." There was silence on the other end. "_Now_ who is weak? Why didn't you _know_? You _should_ have."

"She has a child?"

"That is what I just said. I may be able to use that instead of the powder. Threaten the child. Its life for hers kind of thing. It would certainly prove more entertaining than dragging a drugged up woman back to the flock."

"You do not have much longer to act. The car to escort you both back will be pulling up to the alley door at any moment. Do not screw this up!"

"You have not been much help. Now I have to figure it out and save all of us!"

Cassandra saw red. Maybe it was because she was marching toward the fire extinguisher that eagerly awaited her touch as it hung outside the door to Oswald's office. Maybe she saw red because the familiar fury infected her.

Tawny was still on the phone when Cassandra entered the room, and she turned to greet her hostess as she rapidly tried to disconnect the call.

"Mrs. Cobblepot!" she smiled, because she was clueless. Cassandra smiled brightly because she was going to kill her.

"_Bitch_!" Cassandra yelled back, striking the woman in the face with the end of the extinguisher, sending her careening backwards and down to the floor where she joined the lifeless body of the bodyguard. There was subtle blood splatter upon Cassandra's face and torso.

The stunned woman pushed herself up onto her elbows and looked around for her phone. She did not see it. Might have had something to do with the blood oozing into one of her eyes. She looked up at Cassandra and tried to say something, but was met with white foam to her face.

"You get to talk when I say so," said Cassandra, holding the nozzle on Tawny, ready to spray her again. The woman choked on the goo and spit it out of her mouth and attempted to wipe it from her eyes. She glared at Cassandra.

"As soon as I stand, I will slaughter your whole family," she snarled. That earned her another sharp and quick blow to the head. Cassandra was in a happy, murderous trance, unaware that she looked like a Jackson Pollack painting where red was the color du jour.

"Say that again," Cassandra goaded, but her disappointment, Tawny was out cold.

"_Cassandra_?" came a timid squeak. Gertrud stood in the doorway, wide eyed. She hid Boo's face. Gabe drew his gun and entered the room.

Cassandra slowly turned to look at them, her chin raised and her eyes glassy and defiant, daring either of them to say a word. Gabe shivered. He thought she looked like Carrie at the prom. The Sissy Spacek version. Is there any other?

"W-we just came back to get his toy," her mother-in-law said quietly, pointing to the stuffed animal Cassandra still had clutched in her hand.

"_Nobody_ threatens my family," Cassandra said. Mrs. Kapelput nodded quickly in agreement and made some kind of grunting noise, then motioned to her daughter-in-law's face. Cassandra's eyes regained their sanity and she drew her arm against her cheeks, smearing red across her sleeve. Her face felt cool and sticky.

She took a few steps towards the door then sat the fire extinguisher down before approaching Gertrud and stood behind her so that Boo could not see into the room. She cooed at him and handed him his toy. He lit up, taking the plush toy, and stuck his thumb into his mouth before laying his head back down on Gertrud's shoulder.

"I have some cleaning to do. Why don't you guys go back to the park and enjoy the day. Oswald will wonder where you are."

Gabe knelt beside the dead man and looked over at the empty glass.

"_Yeeeaaah_ . . . I don't think that's such a good idea, if you don't mind me saying, Mrs. Cobblepot. That drink was meant for you." He motioned to the empty glass on the carpet. The rest of the tea had run out and was seeped into the carpet. "I don't think anyone should be going anywhere right now."

Cassandra said, "Boo _does_ look tired. Gertrud, would you sit with him as he naps in the other room? I will carry him."

Gertrud seemed genuinely afraid of Cassandra now, earning both her fear and her respect. She was not sure how to look at her from her on out: a plaything to get rid of or a worthy adversary that would kill without hesitation to protect those she loved. She spoke with caution, gesturing to Cassandra's sweater covered in blood.

"D-do you think you should?" She gazed at her through watchful eyes. Cassandra looked down at herself.

"Hmmmm . . . I see what you mean," she sighed, removing her sweater and turning it inside out before putting it on backwards. "Now let me have him," she said gently. Gertrud complied and followed them into the other room where Cassandra lowered Boo into his crib and picked up the other monitor radio. "May I get you anything?" she asked Gertrud. Gertrud shook her head. "I will call Oswald. Do not leave this room, for safety reasons. I will send up another guard." Gertrud settled into a chair with a book and nodded.

Cassandra went back to the office where Gabe was checking the woman's pulse. He pulled out double-looped plastic restraints and secured her wrists. "She is still alive," he said as Mrs. Cobblepot entered.

"It won't last," Cassandra replied, replacing the other radio into its charging dock.

"You want me to shoot her for you?" he asked.

"No, but thank you. It's a kind offer and I appreciate it," she responded, smiling warmly at the man. "I need answers from her first. What do we do about _him_?"

"It's a sad day, but his family knew the line of business he was in and Mr. Cobblepot is generous with the life insurance he chooses for his employees. They will know he died saving your life. Oswald will probably give him a bonus for that. It will be said 'he met death honorably'. Cops don't have to know."

"Did he have kids?" She almost did not want to know the answer and was grateful when Gabe shook his head no. "Would you mind going next door to watch Gertrud and Boo? You are the only one I trust besides Fara. Could you also send someone up to stay with me? Someone you think is competent? Not that I think I need it, but it I know it would bring peace of mind to Oswald."

"Sure thing, but I believe, if you will pardon, that Mr. Cobblepot would want me to stay with you."

"I don't trust anyone else with Boo. Please. As long as someone is here with me, he will not be upset."

"Let me be clear in my reluctance to leave you. But, I will do as you ask."

"Thank you, Gabe. And, Gabe?" He turned to look at her. "I consider you and Fara my family _too_. I won't let anyone mess with you. Not that I am someone who could scare butter out of a cow, but . . . I just wanted to let you know."

"I _do_ know," he grinned. "Thanks for telling me though. It's nice to hear." He started to go. "And, for the record, if you don't mind me telling you so—you scare me to death. You are one daunting lady."

She beamed and asked, "Really?"

"No joke. Terrifying."

Cassandra placed her hands over her heart, and in a teary voice said, "Stop. You're going to make me cry." Gabe chuckled and left the room, purposely leaving the door open, just in case she called.

Cassandra took a seat and phoned Oswald to tell him about their unexpected visitor. She could hear him practically trying to climb through the phone. "I am on my way!" he shouted.

Two of Oswald's men showed up and one of them dragged the body out of the office to who–knows-where? Not her. The other man just clasped his hands in front of him like he was guarding a goal during a soccer match and stood by the door.

Still no movement from the woman on the floor, but Cassandra's mind was alive, unlocking doors and pushing them open. She closed her eyes and leaned forward resting her forehead in her hands. The film in her head stopped shuffling, its blurry pictures morphing gracefully into an amber memory of long-dead ghosts who no longer saw the need to haunt her. They were setting themselves free.

_No ._ . .

There were no bright flashes, no grand headache, no sudden or separate moments of memory coming at her like someone throwing rocks to her head. It was more like a balloon that had been pricked, losing its breath in an undramatic death, fluttering to the ground unceremoniously.

Cassandra Cobblepot knew she had set the fire that killed 200 people, including her parents. She knew she was capable of worse. She knew now was not the time to throw up as she heard the elevator gears grind into motion and Fara appeared in the doorway, having been ordered to take the stairs by Oswald. Cassandra heard him calling her name as he hastily limped off the elevator and shuffled painfully down the hallway, his leg screaming at him and him brashly ignoring it.

She met him before he got to the office and he embraced her forcefully. Cassandra could feel his heart thumping against her chest and she was sure she would lose her breath from his vice-like grip around her. He took her by the shoulders and held her away from him to inspect her, his eyes traveling to her disarrayed sweater. Through it, he could see the evidence of blood and his eyes widened as he quickly removed it to check for wounds on her arms, neck, and chest.

"Are you okay? What happened? Boo and Mother?" She rubbed his arms, reassuring him.

"They are fine. I'm fine. This isn't my blood . . . or theirs. None of us are hurt. Well . . ." She paused and Oswald's eyes shot up from her body to her face. She told him one of his men had died and what transpired before that. He took her hand and kissed its palm before entering his office, not letting go of her, and stood above the woman on the floor who was still unconscious. He tossed Cassandra's sweater onto his desk.

Cassandra pressed herself against Oswald's arm. His wool jacket was itchy against her forearm. "I get to kill this one, not you," she said. He was taken aback, stunned by her words and the conviction in her voice. "I have done bad things, Oswald, _and I know it_," she whispered.

He tilted his head as if he were listening for a distant scream and narrowed his eyes. She wilted a little and shrugged her shoulders, giving him a slight—almost apologetic—nod. Oswald's face went slack as it dawned on him that her recollection of that ghastly event had finally reclaimed its rightful place in her memory. Cassandra saw the pity in his eyes and closed hers, pressing her lips together. Like a freshly bathed pet, she shook her frame in an attempt to let the revelation drop away, at least for now. They needed to concentrate on the threat at hand.

"_Cassandra_ . . ." Oswald's voice was soft as he addressed her and she shook her head.

"Later," she said.

The woman on the floor moaned and attempted to sit up, but quickly laid back down. Cassandra knelt beside her, and a shiver ran up Oswald's spine as he watched the sickly grin that played across Cassandra's face. She remembered a line from an adventure movie that had made her laugh.

"You chose poorly," she growled to the woman.

Tawny opened her eyes. She knew she was not getting out of this alive—in fact, it was better if she didn't—however, that did not mean she could not take a few of them with her. And, if she could take out Cobblepot, that would be checkmate. The end of the game. The Court solely had wanted to torture the lovers for their own entertainment. That nonsense had been nothing but an afterthought, an amusing bonus, nothing more than a party favor—to watch the heartache of the couple, especially Oswald—for pleasure's sake.

Well, plans change. The real necessity was to rid the world of Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot, one way or another, with or without a show. The Court's plan would take too long anyway. She was right here, right now, and when she got loose, he was a dead man. The others would just be for sport and, besides, she owed Cassandra for those blows to the head, not to mention the foam facial.

"Hoist her up," commanded Cassandra. Fara and the other man jerked the woman from the floor and shoved her into one of the leather chairs. Oswald got right in her face, leaning over and placing his hands on his knees. He bared his teeth.

"You, madam, have made an _incredibly foolish_ mistake." He breathed into her face, the venom with which he spoke caused spit to spew from his mouth and land upon her nose and cheeks. She laughed and this enraged him. "_Do you have any idea who I am_?" he yelled, straightening up.

"A little black-and-white, flightless, waddling bird," she said, earning a blow from Cassandra, which surprised everyone, including Tawny.

"If that is what you truly believe, it gives me pause to wonder why you are here."

Tawny gazed up at Cassandra through discolored eyes, willing her captor to feel her hatred. She curled her lip and resisted the urge to laugh again.

"I know who you are," she growled, turning her sights back on Oswald. "I know exactly who you are. It is why I am here."

"_Who sent you_?" Oswald demanded. Tawny grinned and slowly shook her head.

Oswald took a long, leisurely breath and released it calmly. "Fara? Would you mind retrieving my toys—no wait—better yet, show our guest to her room." Fara started to approach her.

Tawny spoke rapidly, "It won't do you any good." Oswald held up his hand, indicating to Fara that she should wait.

"Why do you say that?" he asked her. Tawny was breathing rapidly and regarded each of them through wild eyes.

Humans are the only creatures who _sometimes _at some point stop fighting when it becomes apparent that the battle is in vain and decide to take death into their own hands . . . to face it on their own terms, for better or for worse. Animals, on the other hand, will fight to the death no matter what, with no thought or reason, even if it is a losing battle. What was unique about Tawny was that she was a confused mix of the two—a highly intelligent, yet devolved human being spliced with primordial, predatory DNA. A rational creature who kills irrationally.

Of course, some would argue the premise that deep down—_aren't we all_?

"The better to eat you with, my dear!" Tawny snarled.

"What?" asked Cassandra and Oswald in unison.

"Did you really think that I would not have come prepared to die if caught? I'm not telling you a damn thing." A painful spasm hit her and she grimaced, doubling over. She knew it would not pass and the pain would only get worse. At least it would be over quickly. But, first . . . she glanced at Oswald whose nose was flaring and his mouth was tight. _He knew. _

Tawny had ingested poison, hidden as a fake tooth. All she had needed to do was bite down, applying a little pressure, and the capsule had burst. She wanted to cackle at the look on Oswald's face. He was furious. She had triumphed over him. He would not be able to kill her because she had already done it for him. And, without a lick of information forthcoming from her. The game continued.

To prepare for the next move, Tawny pushed herself back against the chair. She needed to rest. Any energy she had left at the end would have to be directed towards her last meal. She whispered something.

Oswald stepped toward her, but not too near.

_That won't do_, Tawny thought. She moved her mouth again and was actually glad to hear her death rattle. It was almost time. She needed Oswald closer. His brutes had relaxed their grips on her shoulders.

_Come a little closer said the spider to the fly_. Oswald obliged. Even leaned forward. _How sweet of him_.

Before Tawny could spring for his neck and bury her teeth in his artery, Cassandra had pushed Oswald out of the way, swinging a fireplace poker at his attacker, effectively leaving Tawny with a jagged lopsided grin of shredded muscle and blood. She raised the iron poker and smashed it into the top of Ms. Chouette's head and, in doing so, ripped part of the leather chair in her zeal. Cassandra did not notice.

Another upward cut felt good!

_Hey, I might be a pretty decent golfer! If only this rain would quit. Fore_! _Gotham's putt-putt princess is taking another swing_! _Why don't I do this more often_?—_oh, wait_—the hook caught underneath Tawny's jawbone and dislocated it. A few tugs freed the poker and the jaw—which flew back and hit the wall behind her—and Cassandra keep swinging until her victim fell out of the shredded chair, wherein Cassandra proceeded to bash her face until the woman was wholly unrecognizable.

Oswald sat transfixed on the edge of his desk, enjoying the show._ If only I had some popcorn_, he lamented. His cellphone rang and Gabe asked if everything was okay, he could hear _noises_.

"Oh, yeah," Oswald told him. "Everything is under control."

By the time she was done, Cassandra was standing in a pool of bright red blood with white fiber fluttering in the air around her, the innards of the gutted leather chair. Cassandra was panting as she pulled herself up still gripping the iron poker that now had pieces of flesh and hair hanging off it. A metallic smell was in the air—coppery—Cassandra could almost taste it and—in fact _was_—as she licked the blood from her lips.

"Nobody threatens my family," she said calmly, then pushed her bangs from her face, leaving a red streak above her eyebrow. The bodyguard had pulled out his gun when Tawny had initially lunged, but after the first couple blows from Cassandra, felt secure in the knowledge that Mr. Cobblepot's wife was handling the situation effortlessly. She turned to Oswald.

"Look, honey, I have a body to burn!" she yelled, reflecting the excitement of a child on Christmas morning.

He stared at her, reeling from her glee in crushing his assailant's skull, blood splatter covering him and her and the ceiling overhead and most everything nearby and in between. The fiber continued to drift around her.

_She looks like a fiery snow demon and I am captivated_, he thought. _I chose well._

"Sorry about the chair," she said.


	85. Chapter 84

Chapter 84

"Mr. Cobblepot, we found this underneath your desk."

The cleaning crew was sopping up the blood and visceral jellies that decorated the place, careful not to damage the LED panel on the ceiling as they wiped, scooped, and bagged what remained of Tawny Chouette into dark plastic sacks. There was not much left. Cassandra had set fire to the pieces that Oswald had lovingly detached from the corpse and presented to her as a suitor would present flowers. Most of the cleanup was blood, body fluids, bone splinters, and loose pieces of flesh that had been bespattered and flung around various parts of his office.

Oswald decided now was as good a time as any to refurbish his study and knock down the wall that separated it from the neighboring bedroom. He would begin removing some of the other walls as well to form a sitting area and modest kitchen. The man who had just spoken to Oswald was draped in a plastic jumper, complete with gloves and adorned with a shower cap and safety glasses. He handed Oswald a cellphone. Someone was still listening. Oswald looked again at the telephone screen. The caller was "unknown". He placed the phone to his ear.

"_By this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth_," he warned, using one of his favorite Shakespearean threats. The line went dead. Oswald tightened lips and made sure the line was indeed disconnected before tucking it into the pocket of his jacket. Someone had heard the whole brouhaha. Someone who wanted him dead. Someone who wanted Cassandra.

She had been a sight to behold and he grinned, thinking about it. She was showering at the present, cleaning herself up. He decided to join her, and took pride in his wonderful decision.

"Gabe?" He turned to his first lieutenant who stood guarding the doorway in case any other unwanted guests decided to come a-calling.

"Yeah, boss?" He watched Oswald flick a bit of stringy flesh off his bangs.

"I am leaving you in charge." Oswald patted the man on the belly as he exited the room and then paused, fishing the cell out of his pocket. "See what you can find out about this phone. Whose name is on the account. Calls placed and received. Anything."

"Sure thing, boss. Fara with your mom and Cassandra?" He nodded. It had been nearly three hours since their adventure had started and he was certain they were ready for lunch.

"Yes, but a bit of sunshine is in order for my wee boy, so Mother and Boo will soon be adjourning to the rooftop for a picnic, if he is not still napping. Boo will like the pigeons, I am certain. Be sure to stay in constant contact with Fara—although, I will, however, be sending another guard to keep watch as well." It was not that Oswald thought Fara could not handle anything thrown her way, but . . . it was his family . . . and one should not be too cocky. He turned to leave, but the phone on his desk rang. Oswald stopped to answer it, silent as he listened to the caller and then gave Gabe a surprised look.

"Good afternoon, Officer Tannenbaum, how may I help you?" He placed a hand on his hip. "Huh, you don't say? A Sheila Robinson?" He nodded. "Ah, I see. Yes, it was a bit of a misunderstanding but . . ." Oswald glanced at the stained carpet where his attacker had bled out. "It has been straightened out. I will have Cassandra call Ms. Robinson to reassure her."

_Stop talking Tannenbaum_!

"Okay, I will . . . yes." _Confound it! The man is a chatterbox!_ "I appreciate your call . . ." Oswald started lowering his head to the phone cradle as though through osmosis Tannenbaum would get the hint to cease speaking. "Indeed. Thank you again. Good day to you." Apparently, one of them did not have enough brain cells for the transaction. Oswald was positive it was not him. "All right. I must be going. Good-bye."

"He likes you," Gabe teased. Oswald gave a good-natured snarl and proceeded down the hall, placing a call to the chef and wait staff. Five minutes later, he was alone in the room and took this moment to slip a tracker into her necklace before removing his shoes and lightly knocking on the door to the bathroom. Slowly he pushed it open and was met with warm humidity that settled in a moist layer upon his face. He imagined this was what it was like to travel to the tropics. He vowed never to go there.

"It is I," he called to her.

Cassandra had turned off the overhead light, but nonetheless a portion of the room was illuminated in an amber fog—courtesy of the soft orange glow emanating from the exclusive Marcel Wanders shower chandeliers. The glistening collection resembled wisteria in alternating colors of ginger and bay. Oswald had special ordered them. He had been owed a favor.

He heard a soft "come in" and wobbled into the room. He stood for a moment to watch her silhouette, a charcoal drawing come to life upon grainy parchment, and subconsciously placed his hand over his heart. He hesitated, momentarily thinking that maybe she needed this time alone, without him, and turned to go. His hand was on the doorknob when he heard her open the beveled door and say his name.

"I do not wish to disturb you . . ." he began, turning to her, unsure of what to do next. He did not want to intrude, nor did he want to leave.

"Would you care to join me?" she asked.

"May I?" He was like a child asked to join the popular kids at their prestigious lunch table. She snickered and gave him a lopsided grin while nodding at him.

"Stop," she said, when he began unbuttoning his vest, the tie being disposed of already after the fracas in his office. He looked confused, but did as she requested.

"But I . . ."

"_Come here_," she ordered. He was more than happy to oblige, still not sure where this was leading. Well, he _did_ know where this was leading, he just was not sure how he was getting there. This aroused him further.

When he came within her reach, Cassandra grabbed him by his shirt and pulled him close, planting a vigorous kiss upon his mouth. When she released him, just a breath away from his face, she informed him, "If you have anything in your pockets that you don't want getting wet, I suggest you take them out _now_." Oswald immediately began emptying his pockets, the do-dads and what-nots falling where they may—on the tile or across the counter.

The steam danced around her and the water seemed to rejoice at touching her skin. She had gone from snow demon to fire goddess to water nymph in the course of a few hours and Oswald's head was spinning. He could not wait to see what she would turn into next and celebrated in the fact that through it all, she remained his Cassandra. It was like watching varied formations within a kaleidoscope, an ever-shifting pattern, but still the same components.

But, as he observed her now, it was with a mix of concern and desire. Oswald felt guilty about that last part. He yearned to comfort her, to satiate her need and his own. The scent of her shampoo and soap was flowery, sweet. Her back was slick. She was nibbling on his ear, now his neck . . .

"Are you sure?" he asked, stroking the side of her face, as she lifted her gaze to him. Her eyes were puffy. She nodded and kissed him again.

When they parted, he whispered, "You were a vision . . . are a vision—you are _always_ a vision." He was flubbing his words. He sighed. _Will I ever get it right_? "What I mean is—"

"I know what you mean . . ." she whispered back, pulling him into the sprays of water.

She _had _been a vision to him in that moment, defending him, exuding such power and rage. The swish of the iron poker as she sliced it through the air, rearing back to prepare for another strike. The feminine grunts she made when her weapon of choice came into contact with bone and flesh. Her undulating body as she twisted and straightened and attacked again, her skirt revealing contours and curves, ripping halfway up the seam. Her fitted sweater riding up from her waist to give him a peek-a-boo tease of her midriff. The way the red blood just "popped" against the pureness of her stark white outfit and rolled down her face.

_She was magnificent_!

Holding nothing back. Operating on deliberate malice when setting their dearly departed guest aflame, burning one tiny sawed off limb at a time in the fireplace, saving what was left of the head for last, switching between using matches and the kerosene lighter, just to watch the different ways the body could burn—which was slower, faster, if there was any difference at all . . . _and_ she had even been clever enough to place a dripping pan underneath the grate to catch any waxy liquid from the melting flesh and catch the smaller bones.

It would take a few days to get the smell out from the walls, but that was why Febreze was invented. Would make a lovely commercial. Invite in blindfolded strangers, play guess the aroma. Kill the witnesses later if necessary. The company's sales within the criminally-inclined demographic would go up immediately.

Oswald chuckled and surveyed the center of the room. The Oriental rug would have to be destroyed, or possibly donated, and the leather couch and extra chair replaced. Surely a second-hand store would not turn up its nose at such lavishness, even with a little . . . a few . . . okay, a lot of questionable stains, would they?

_Ingrates. Where was that bleach_?

Gabe said he knew of a guy who could make ammo out of the deceased's ashes. Said one pound of ash is enough to produce 250 cartridges, or one case. Oswald had liked that idea very much. He would save the bullet(s) for whomever it was that was behind this shady venture.

It would be serendipity. . . _instigated by him_! Karma . . . _by his own hands_!

His trigger finger itched just thinking about it. Completely changed the meaning of "going out with a bang". He wished he had known about the option earlier.

Cassandra had said there was even a place that would turn ashes into diamonds. Oswald entertained the idea of exhuming her uncle and turning him into earrings for her. Then he considered cremating his future targets from now on in order to transform them into gems—something his past victims certainly had not been while alive, so really, he was doing them a favor—because who would think of hiding the body on one's finger or around one's neck or even as a tiara nestled in one's hair.

If he were to be king, perhaps he should wear a crown of all those who had wronged him upon his head. The idea of a corpse in plain sight excited him to no end. After all, was there even a way to extract DNA from a diamond, albeit manmade, to prove that someone was dead, nevertheless, murdered and by what means? He was going to pass out from the implications of this new information.

Right now he was enjoying the heat from Cassandra's flesh as it emitted from her and soaked his shirt and onto his chest. She had pulled him in for another kiss and had her arms clamped around him, dragging him further into the warm stream of water.

It was a weird sensation of being hot and cold, and him feeling more naked than she although he was fully dressed. He was out of sorts, his socks sopping wet and his body made heavier by his drenched clothing. The last time he experienced this waterlogged feeling was right after Cassandra and he had deposed of the flower guy and hopped in the bath for a cleansing. It was _surprisingly _most enjoyable, and he had decided then he would not mind a repeat. He had not been sure he would _ever care_ for that soggy uncomfortableness after Detective Gordon had shoved him into the icy river in order to spare Oswald the coldness of a lead bullet through his brain, but after Cassandra had introduced him to the games two could play . . .

So basically, Oswald concluded, being submerged in water fully dressed was a right positive experience, and should be practiced more often. After all, if it had not been for James acting in accordance with what Oswald knew was his knightly personality, Oswald would have never left Gotham and would have never met Cassandra.

_I owe him_, Oswald paused to realize, resolving to never, _ever_ tell the detective so.

Oswald was grateful for the memory. It was what had started his initial journey to Cassandra. It would have made a wonderful wedding toast if only James had reciprocated his friendship. He could have said Jim introduced them, in a manner of speaking. This made Oswald grin and he peeked from underneath languid eyelids to watch her. Cassandra peeled each piece of his elegant suit away from him without removing her mouth from his, until he stood underneath the water in just his socks.

He drew back a fraction to study her face. Her eyes were swollen—the clatter of the water had perfectly masked any sound of keening, and he cupped her cheek and jawline in one hand, a slight frown creasing the flesh above his nose.

"I do not want to discuss what I remember. It is as Haly told us," she stated flatly. Her nose was still a little congested, but the steam would open the passageways—as long as she did not start crying again. If she did, her nose would become as clogged as a lard-addicted man's arteries.

Oswald looked at her closely and was not sure if it were tears or the running water that played around her eyes. Cassandra ran her fingertips across his lips and he kissed them as she did. She wanted to grin at him, a light coming on in her eyes, subtly brightening the sadness of her features, but it was like her mind did not have enough strength to fight the misery. "It is over and done with. An accident, a terrible accident, from far away—long ago." She laid her forehead on his shoulder and he felt her sudden tremble.

"Not so faraway and long ago," he whispered. "They have been with you for years."

She raised her head and looked at him. "And now they're gone. The memories are here, but the ghosts are gone."

"_Cassandra_ . . ."

She jerked him towards her and he had to catch them both by steadying his hand against the tile wall. Already, one of her legs was wrapped around his thigh and he growled inwardly.

_I will take it all, my darling. Give me your burden. Sweat it out onto my flesh and cry it into my pores. Allow me to soak it up—and what does not disappear into me, I will cleanse from you and rinse away_.


	86. Chapter 85

Chapter 85

He awoke the next morning to his phone vibrating on the nightstand. Groggily Oswald reached out for it, touched a button, and spoke softly into the receiver as to not wake Cassandra or Boo who had ended up snuggled in between them as the evening deepened. The little boy had whimpered in his crib during the night and was now sleeping peacefully, securely guarded on both sides by human fortresses. Oswald's focus lingered on their restful forms that were shrouded within the sheets and duvet.

_I still cannot believe this is my life. Better than planned. This year I may actually send out Christmas cards with greetings from the family, complete with a picture of us sitting around a decorated tree with a fire roaring upon the hearth. And hot cocoa. We will have hot cocoa. It will be a freaking Norman Rockwell photo._

"What?" he yawned. Oswald was not fully awake and he was skeptical about what Gabe just told him, sure he had not heard him correctly. The hefty man repeated himself, and Oswald perked up, fully awake now as if someone had just thrown cold water on him.

Maroni's gang had attacked Falcone—_attacked the man himself_—and The Roman was wounded. Oswald thanked Gabe and pressed "End Call". Christmas had come early. Falcone was being transported to the hospital, and rumors were floating that another hit was to occur there—in that place of sanctuary and healing—to take the mob boss out completely.

_Not if I get to the hospital first_, thought Oswald. _I owe the man an explanation and a heartfelt goodbye_. _He deserves that at least_.

He needed to get there before Maroni did.

_Yes, it will be inspirational to witness the look on the big lout's face once he learns I ridded Gotham of the most notorious Don the city has ever seen before he could finish the job_. _Before he could raise his beefy hands for the final death blow. That is what too much pasta will do for you. Makes you slow. I should know_, Oswald thought.

As silently as he could, Oswald crawled out from the warm sheets and shed his silk pajamas—the slight chill in the air causing him to shiver yet feel "more alive". He slithered into one of his customary dark suits but, because of the specialness of this day, he chose one much darker—quite opposite from his mood right now—perfect for a funeral on an overcast day, even though Oswald was feeling like sunshine.

He watched Cassandra, still as a corpse, and it was like a shadow had passed over his own grave, troubling him so that he stilled the movement of his fingers, ceasing to adjust his cufflinks—umbrellas, by the way.

"_I wandered lonely as a cloud_ . . ." _Why does this quote vex me_ now?

The dread that had overtaken Oswald nights ago, revisited him. _Such an inopportune time_. He shook it off. _Empty omens_. _Daft irrationals. Ruminations and presentiments that only a madman would entertain_.

He finished clasping the silver cuffs and buttoned his jacket, turning to examine himself in the mirror. The midmorning sun was invading his home, as usual, the intruder, and he squinted, trying to get a clear visual of himself in the mirror. Giving up, he choose instead to get a better look in the bathroom mirror and walking in, allowed his eyes to wander to the shower. He knew he would never look at it the same way again and was the happier for it.

They had been allowed another hour to themselves and had spent it lounging on the bed, wrapped in terry cloth robes. Oswald's hair had already dried naturally, but Cassandra's still held the water and she would reach for the towel every now and then to give her dark locks a squeeze, sitting cross-legged in front of him when she did. It was a prime opportunity for him to nip at her knees and tease her by rubbing his hands along the inside of her thighs while taking in the view he so hardily enjoyed. Soon he would have to steal away from her to check on food and liquor shipments, review the books by the recently hired accountant (bribed away from the hotel), and check out the news on the tellie above the bar to see how wonderfully well his war was progressing.

Business as usual.

She had thrown the towel aside for the third time, and he rushed her, encircling her with both arms and pulling her down beside him. She had rubbed his chest and told him that she had started to follow him that fateful night—that awful moment he had left her standing in the dark, in the kitchen, calling out his fake name. Cassandra's pleas had awakened her uncle and some of the boarders who thought she was having one of her episodes. Her uncle had said he had heard the slam of the backdoor, and told her to go after the boy. She had practically been on her way after him, but then her uncle had collapsed and she stayed. Leaving her uncle was not an option. Not then. Not yet.

Oswald closed his eyes and relished in knowing that she had wanted to run after him. Had actually been halfway out the door. He tightened his arms around her. _Let me ask you about your memories_, he silently implored. _I dare say this cannot be healthy_.

_Yet, who am I to speak of healthy minds_.

Her forehead was warm against his lips as he tilted to kiss it, the moisture settling into her skin. _If I did not expect Boo and Mother back anytime soon, I would have you again, my pretty one. Waugh, waugh, waugh . . ._

As he gazed down at her now through the half-light and absentmindedly pressed his hands against his tie, he was overcome again with a fearfulness that threatened to stop his heart.

_Ridiculousness is all it is. "Strange fits of passion have I known . . ." Yes, strange . . . odd . . . unique and silly . . . and absurd. As beautiful as the stanza is, it is only part of a poem, not a premonition. Words put to paper—nothing more. Just a reminiscence of verses committed to a saddened mind on a lonesome night. Leftovers from a wretched dream and a solitary life—not a hint of things to come._

He felt like Ebenezer Scrooge explaining away a hallucination—nothing more than indigestion. _That is, of course, the answer_, Oswald reasoned. _A bit of tainted salmon. Spoiled caviar, perhaps_.

_Someone is getting fired_.

Boo moved in his sleep and stuck his thumb in his mouth, his other hand reaching for the spot where Oswald had lain. Oswald grinned and hobbled over to the edge of the bed to briefly take his son's hand—tiny, chubby fingers closing around only one of his. Leaning like that for a moment, his gaze wandering from his legally-wed helpmate to his soon-to-be-illegally adopted progeny, he wondered if it best to scoop them both up and leave Gotham. Go somewhere where it snowed all the time instead of rained.

And, for a brief instant, he seriously considered it.

_No, this is my home_, he asserted, making his solid and unwavering decision. It was his final answer. _I have traveled too far upon this perilous journey to divert now. So close to having it all._ He released Boo's hand and straightened up again_._

He was _not_ Ebenezer. He would _not_ be visited by ghosts. After all, was it not _he_ who had created _them_, year after year, in his climb to the top? Instigating the metamorphosis from tangible to spirit? Freeing a plethora of souls from their earthly, encumbered bodies—too afraid of him to haunt him?

Only the _very_ stupid ghosts would do that.

Falcone was too smart to visit him after death. _Maroni_? That one was debatable.

Oswald grabbed his cellphone and exited the room. _Soon I shall be king of the hill_.

Gabe met him with the keys to the SUV as soon as Oswald stepped off the elevator, and assumed he would be driving his boss. He was surprised when Oswald rejected that offer and told him he was taking Butch. Gabe was to stay and oversee the club. Fara would stay behind as well as a precaution_. _Gabe watched his boss walk away and thought that Mr. Cobblepot was putting too much faith in Butch—_all of his eggs in one basket_, as the saying goes.

Oswald was certain this job would be easy. The hospital staff was clearing out, leaving behind a perfectly helpless mobster at the mercy of whosoever came to visit. An added bonus was that there were no designated visiting hours, _no nurse or doctor to shoo me out the door_. Poor man, all alone. Oswald would bring him flowers.

_I mean, how hard is it to exterminate an incapacitated old man_?

_How hard, indeed_, Oswald reflected as he was handcuffed to a radiator. James Gordon had interrupted his plans to assassinate Falcone and now _he and Butch_ were the ones that were _incapacitated_.

Gordon instructed Falcone not to kill him. _How thoughtful_.

"You owe me!" Oswald yelled to Jim, who promptly ignored him. _See if I do you anymore favors, DETECTIVE_, Oswald seethed inwardly, biting back his bitterness.

_Revelation: we were never friends—you and I. Correction: _you_ were never MY_ _friend_. _I was YOURS. _Was,_ being the key word_, y_ou churlish, bat-fowling, mutton shunter._

He glared at Falcone, who had removed a knife from his sock and was admiring it. Oswald's face fell when he saw him open the blade.

_Don't kill me indeed_. Oswald was not sure the mob boss would obey.

He could not believe Jim left him like that—helpless. After all he had done for the cop.

_Traitorous! Foolishness! Allowing Falcone to live! Trapping us all in this tiny, decrepit hospital room! Leaving me prisoner with a man who wants me dead while another one comes who will claim my head!_

_By Jove, I have read too much poetry._

Then he heard the gunfire. One policeman against a handful of thugs. Yep, that was a fair fight. Not that he cared about being fair, but he was partial to not dying.

Oswald jiggled and pulled on the handcuffs in a vain attempt to free himself. They rattled against the radiator sending the noise echoing around the room and down the hall. The steel bracelets held fast and _now I have probably just given away our location, and it is not like the hooligans can ask a nurse which room Falcone occupied, so good job_.

_I. Am going. To die_. _Cassandra. Boo. Mother. Gotham_. He thought upon them all, his heart in his throat. He envisioned his mother collapsing from the news of his death; Cassandra heartbroken and enraged, burning down areas of the city ran by Maroni; his child being raised without a father; Gotham in ruins without him. _I will not die today_, he kept repeating to himself.

Minutes later he was being rudely jerked down the hall by Detective Bullock who did nothing but complain about Oswald's unwelcomed presence and the fact that he himself was even here in the first place. Didn't the little man know today was the only day of the week that they ran specials at the deli? He could have been elbows deep in a sandwich instead of in deep shit with Maroni and his band of un-merry men.

"Now there is probably a mark on our heads too. Nice work, partner," he said to Jim as they hustled down a stairwell. Not the greatest move with a limping man and an injured godfather, but the only one they had that gave them any shot at surviving. "Way to get on Sal's good side. No offense, Carmine."

"You are saving my life, detective. At this point, you could say anything and I would not be offended. Let's call it an even trade."

Stealing the ambulance had been fun though. What was it about people leaving the keys in running vehicles? C'est la vie. Added a little bit of daring to the getaway. Of course, if the employees had been there, it would not been as easy to borrow without permission. Perhaps they should all chip in to buy them a thank-you card. Oswald chuckled. _What a silly concept—BUYING the card_.

The best part about the ambulance heist was running over Maroni. Oswald glanced out the back window to see the big man getting up from the asphalt and dusting himself off. Shame the coat got dirty. He kind of liked that coat.

When he saw the hospital disappear from his sight, Oswald breathed a sigh of relief. They were going to Falcone's safe house. They were out of danger. They would be heading out of the city.

Jim turned into a warehouse and parked, shutting off the ignition. _Why are we not heading out of the city_? This is not safe. Nor is it a house. There are chains here and rusty stuff. Jim has driven us onto the set of an urban slasher movie and, oh crap, here comes Selina with a gun. Since when did she work for Maroni? No, it could not possibly be Maroni. He does not have an inkling about this place. Only one other person did, and that person was . . .

"I know, I know. I sometimes surprise myself," said a sultry female voice.

_Fish_.

One of the deadliest and most cunning women Oswald had ever come into contact with came swaggering out of the shadows followed by a rag-tag posse of street teens and sallow-looking adults who were closer to resembling scarecrows than people. Besides her attitude and seductive voice, the only thing about Fish that Oswald recognized was her mocha skin. Other than that—

_Her hair . . . what . . . a Mohawk? And, wait . . . has her scalp been Bedazzled_? _Did she get drunk one night and allow a bunch of adolescents in pigtails do this to her_? _Did she fall into a vat of toys and come out as Mobster Barbie_? _Did she have a bat as an accessory_?

She spotted him. "Penguin." She promised him a slow, painful death. For something he did not even do! Now _where_ was the justice in _that_?

Butch was no help. He had left to "go lie down, not feeling well". _Sorry meater is worse than my mother when she has a case of the vapors, which was often_. He would pay for this. Oswald was not sure how yet, but he would.

In the meantime, Oswald needed a new plan. He would get out of this. He had an uncanny knack of doing so. Even when Maroni and his hitmen showed up, he whittled to survive—carving, forming, creating what he desired. People could be so easily manipulated and he was so skilled in taking advantage of that trait. Even tied to a hook, Oswald was always planning—moving chess pieces around on his cerebral board. Rethinking strategy to complement the circumstance. Not even mob bosses were immune to a man who knew how to play them, especially those who had egos the size of small planets.

Maroni just never knew when to quit. Normally, Oswald did not like his condescending nature; however, today it was proving to be Oswald's favorite thing about the man. All it had taken was a little prodding and both Fish and Maroni both took the bait. The big lug was just prattling on, his mouth moving faster than his brain, insulting Fish and her gender like a brainless caveman.

Oswald watched with rapt interest. _Just keep talking, you womanizing pig_. He owed the Don for the maltreatment of Gertrud and the doubts he had planted in Cassandra's head.

There was a bang, and Oswald believed Maroni had just cashed in on his debt to Fish—the bullet that had just entered the man's brain being a dead giveaway. Oswald snickered.

_Ah, a thing of beauty_! Maroni went down with a thud, and after a beat, when everyone had recovered from the shock, the bullets started to fly, and so did Oswald. Maroni did not even have the chance to ruminate on his fate that Cassandra had preordained at his request—his downfall at the hands of a woman. Another one of her hunches manifested into reality.

Nobody was paying Oswald any attention. Good.

_Now is my chance_! He freed himself from the makeshift restraints and limped away from the panicking crowd, into the darkness.

His subtle foray into Falcone's confidence had supplied him the opportunity to verify what he already knew—that Falcone had unlimited access to arms, hidden in secret places across Gotham City and among its outskirts. Oswald knew he would find what he needed in any one of the crates stacked throughout the warehouse. He just did not understand why there were sudden fires in the rusted trashcans that decorated the drab building.

Throwing down the ropes that had confined him, Oswald dug his fingers under the top of one of the wooden crates, inviting a few splinters into his fingertips as he worked them under the loosened lid. It still would not budge. So intent he was in opening the box, Oswald did not hear two of Fish's crew sneak up behind him, one gently patting a crowbar against the palm of her hand. He sensed their presence too late and grabbed the rope, flicking it across her face and leaving a healthy gash on her cheek, just under her left eye.

She dabbed at the blood and looked at it glistening on her fingers before turning her mocking gaze back upon Oswald. He heard a swish and felt a draft by his head and watched in delighted shock as his attacker fell to the concrete floor—a victim of a speedy arrow. Oswald's eyes widened and he barely had time to register that the man who had been previously standing beside Oswald's assailant had joined her on the floor, also dead from an arrow to the heart. He gasped and turned around to see Cassandra carrying his crossbow pistol and smiling brightly. She approached him and planted a wet kiss on his mouth.

"How'd I do, lover?" she asked when she pulled away. If they had not been in the middle of a gang war right now—like, _literally_ in the middle of it—he would have thrown his wife into the backseat of one of these forgotten vehicles and had his way with her.

"Brilliant!" he declared, watching her place her foot on each victim's chest before removing the arrow in a quick upward motion, eliciting a suction sound most people would find sickening. Not him. And, apparently, not her either. "How . . ." He had intended to inquire how she had found him, when she held up her phone.

"GPS is a two-way street, my sweet." Of course, he should have realized, and nodded his head, a grin playing upon the corners of his mouth. Being stalked had never felt this good. Or bad—she should not be here. She needed to get back to safety.

"You should not be here," he sang, grabbing the crowbar from the newly deceased assailant and using it to pry open the crate. Underneath the packing straw was a black, shiny light machine gun, a weapon of beauty, and Oswald checked to make sure it was fully assembled. Satisfied, he dug around in the crate for ammo while Cassandra wiped the quarrels across her leather pants, removing the blood, before redepositing them back into the quiver at her hip. She had possessed the forethought to wear black, and he was surprised and relieved to see it. She would blend in with the shadows. There was a knife strapped around one thigh.

His gaze drifted over her. It looked like she had rolled around nude in black paint and then casually decided to have a night on the town. _ I hope she will wear that outfit once we get home_.

"I am flabbergasted you are wearing black," he told her, attaching the magazine to the weapon. One should do the trick. She approached him a little too seductively for their current situation—although he was not complaining—and peeled back her top to reveal white lining.

"It's reversible," she informed him. She looked delicious against the smoky atmosphere of the warehouse, the light and dark playing tug-of-war across her features.

"Thank you, my love. You have been splendid. _Now GO HOME_!"

"Not a chance! I will hide in the shadows, if it will calm your fears, but I am not leaving you. I fear for you." She grabbed the back of his neck and placed their foreheads together, looking him in the eyes. "I told you I would never leave you and I will not—not now. Not ever. It's a life sentence, remember?"

"I am _begging _you," he implored. She shook her head no and kissed him again, breathing in his scent.

"Be the last one standing," she whispered. Then she was gone, disappearing between the oil drum barrels, each one probably containing a missing person, and the shelves stacked high with everything from explosives to illegal cigars to undisclosed toxins and bags labeled "feed".

Every cuss word that Oswald had ever known came into his head and out his mouth.

He focused all his frustration and fear, rage and retribution into opening fire on the group in front of him. One thousand rounds a minute.

It should have been more than enough, but it was not, and he was faced with possible death once more. It would either be him or the person who sniveled in front of him. He chose the latter, picking up a discarded gun—too fast for the other man to claim it. Oswald fired, and the man who had begged for his life, lost it—a newly born ghost.

Everyone else was either dead or had cleared out, but Oswald knew, he just _knew_ that Fish was still present. Now the game of cat and mouse can begin—and end—once and for all.

"_Fish_!" he yelled. "_Where are you_?" It was Marco Polo all over again.

_Egad, I love games_!

A sound from the stairwell captured his attention and he moved towards it.

_Where is Cassandra_? _Although I enjoy chasing her, now is not the time_. He saw the elongated shadow upon the concrete brick wall and recognized the outline of his nemesis. _Fish, my hand is upon the hourglass and the sand in your sphere is nearly siphoned_.

It had been difficult and painful climbing those stairs, each step more torturous than the last—every stride and shift of weight felt like an ice pick puncturing his muscles. The agony that shot from ankle to hip and back down again, only furthered his will to invite Fish to her own death banquet, the debilitating stabs reinforcing his hatred of the woman—of the person who had given him the injury. Caused him such pain in both words and deeds.

Never respected him. Never saw him as anything other than a lapdog. Laughed at him. Teased him.

Humiliated him as he twisted helpless on a beer-stained floor while she beat him with a bat. Denied him of ever being able to walk straight again, forever awkward, always needing a cane, a crutch, an umbrella . . . Took away his joy of running uninhibited and free through the streets of Gotham. Stole the unrestrained sensuality that he had wanted to grant to his bride, to himself, still believing he fell utterly short in that department because of his condition—limited, bound by physical constraints.

_You deserve to die, you bitch_. _Your thievery has not ruined me alone_. _Your claws have scratched others_.

It was strangely silent atop the building, as if the rigid structures were suddenly afraid to whisper to each other. The world seemed to waver and move in slow motion. The hunt was on. Oswald sensed her, but did not see her, could not hear her, which was odd because he was convinced that through the silence of the night, he could hear a star dying. He drew the weapon to the level of his eyes, wired and ready to shoot.

There was scrape of foot upon the pebble deck and the gun was knocked from Oswald's grasp as Fish struck his outstretched arms with a lead pipe. He marveled in how adrenaline and fury numbed the body. He probably would not be able to move tomorrow, but tonight he was engaged in the fight of his life—the fight _for_ his life, for his dignity, to impress Cassandra, the fight for Gotham. He had absolutely no intention of losing.

Aaaaaaaand then Butch showed up. Where exactly does one lie down for a rest in a musty old warehouse anyway?

"Shoot her!"' Oswald ordered him. What was wrong with the man? He was supposed to obey him without question. What was happening? Gabe would not have even needed to be told. Nor Fara.

"I'm your girl!" Fish yelled to Butch. The man looked like his head might explode, but he pointed the gun to Fish and pulled the trigger.

Oswald's victory soon turned to defeat when Butch turned the gun on him and shot him as well, knocking the breath out of him and inflicting a flesh wound. Oswald grabbed his side as he rolled upon the chilled rooftop and inspected the amount of blood on his hands. He may or may not need stitches. He did not think them necessary. He would survive. As usual.

The same could not be said for others, and a discarded wooden board made a handy weapon as he bashed the back of Butch's head with it_. Live or die, Butch, I no longer care. Who am I fooling—I never did. But, I will use you one way or the other_.

He spun on Fish who tensed into a defensive stance. _Let us partake in the assumption that all fish can swim_.

Oswald was not aware that he was snarling as he ran headlong at his target, lifting her with unexpected ease and swiftness, and throwing her into the sea below.

He had done it. Maroni was dead. Fish was dead. Falcone had exiled himself. Oswald was king of Gotham.

_Oswald _was king of Gotham. _I am the King of Gotham_.

He yelled this as he stood on the cement precipice that lined the perimeter of the rooftop. _Can you hear me, Gotham_? _You are mine_! _I have a son. I have a wife. And, now I have Gotham. I am the king of everything_.

He heard a yelp behind him and twisted to see what had caused it. There was an arrow sticking from Butch's leg and Cassandra had just delivered another blow to the man's head with the board. He fell over, unconscious.

"I was not sure if he was going to pull you down or push you over," she explained, still holding the board in front of her.

"No need to take chances," he shrugged. "Come up here," he said, offering her his hand. Cassandra caught sight of his bloodied shirt and gasped.

"You're wounded." She placed the board on Butch and held open Oswald's jacket to get a better look. She lifted his shirt and was relieved to see that the bullet had just grazed his skin and had not left a deep wound. Stitches were not in order, but definitely a bandage and some antibiotics. "Did _he_ do this?" she asked with venom, indicating Butch.

"He did," Oswald said and stopped her from removing her knife from her thigh by insisting she join him. She twisted the arrow further into Butch's leg for good measure, before jerking it out of his flesh and placing it back in the pouch with the others. "Please, stand with me. I insist."

"Oh, I don't know about that," she answered. His hand was still outstretched.

"You do not place your faith in me that I can protect you?"

"I do not trust the wind, nor gravity, nor my own clumsiness." She placed her hand in Oswald's. "But I do trust you."

"I will not let you fall," he said, drawing her up and holding her steadfast as the wind swirled around them and a tempest churned in the water below. The moon was full and bright. "Go on," he said, urging her. "Yell it."

"What?" she asked.

"You know."

Cassandra paused for a moment taking in Oswald's beauty as he stood against the sparkling grandeur of the night sky. She turned to face the moon and took a deep breath before she yelled, "_I'm the Queen of Gotham_!"


	87. Chapter 86

Chapter 86

It had been simple really. To turn the underbosses against each other. The _capo di tutti capi_—the godfather of godfathers, the Dons of Dons had tucked tail and run, which was fine with Oswald. Gotham was falling apart, and he would be there to put it back together again. Humpty Dumpty should have come to him for help. Of course, the egg would have been in his gratitude.

A power struggle that had seethed underneath the faux decorum of the mob world for decades exploded and trickled down, rabidly infecting the families and ripping apart established truces and pacts previously sealed with a handshake or a fist to the face. No one was immune—from the advisors and crew chiefs to the soldiers and associates, all participated in the mad grab for the throne—or for a change of loyalties—but all _thoroughly disposable _and foaming at the mouth to survive.

Oswald had planted those seeds of discord long ago so that they would grow steady and strong over the days and months and years that he had been weaving webs throughout Gotham. A busy little spider. Silently setting all his deathtraps in the shadows. So easy to do when so many undermined him. Nasty insects in lovely little cocoons, just . . . _gone_ . . . leaving voids that he clamored and cajoled and killed to fill, whispering lies and watching the theatrics unfold.

Sometimes it bothered him that he was so good at it. _Sometimes_.

The result of his deceptiveness, a poison vine . . . then a bush . . . now a tree, solidified the unseemly deaths and disappearances of those who thought they were in control. Those who believed they were next in line to rule.

Silly goon-sheep, power is for penguins.

A mere phone call to Gabe, and one of Falcone's most impressive homes was empty, well, except for the blood and guts and bones, etc., and so on, ad nauseum. The last few fools that had refused to loosen their stronghold on the gothic mansion now decorated it. Oswald needed to ensure the place was tidy. Could not bring home a bride, a child, and a mother into a mansion that looked more like a meat locker than a place of refuge.

_I hope Gabe took the Febreze_.

This particular house Oswald had wanted for some time. It was a castle, a fortress, grey stone and iron, with tapestries and family crests hanging like forgotten carcasses against its rock walls, nothing like that Martha Stewart wet dream were Oswald had consorted with Falcone by the outside aviary—although the aviary was a gem. He and Cassandra would build one on their new property. Right now the place was replete with owls living in the mouths of gargoyles.

_Owls_. _The Court of Owls . . . watches . . . rules . . ._

He cast another thought upon the children's poem and how it supposedly connected to Cassandra's parents and, ultimately, her. _That ruffles my feathers_, he griped inwardly as he slapped Butch across the face for the third time trying to wake up the turncoat.

"Let me try," Cassandra piped up. She was overly eager. Oswald liked that. He stood and stretched his palm out towards the unconscious man.

"By all means, be my guest," he told her, with a smile. His eyes sparkled as he watched her strike the man twice, finally waking Butch out of his coma.

"W-wha . . . _oooohhhhh, my leg hurts_!" he complained, glancing at Cassandra. "You shot me with a bow and arrow!" He sat up, pointing to her and clutched the wound. It had been wrapped with a torn piece of his shirt, but still bled through.

Oswald kicked Butch's injured leg. "Need I remind you, you shot me with a gun and bullet! Now get up!"

He and Cassandra helped Butch to his feet, who had the gall to utter, "I don't think I can walk."

Oswald impatiently threw his hands up into the air. "Fine. I will throw you down."

"Like you did Fish?" The man was all teary-eyed and it disgusted Oswald that he would cry over that woman.

"_Yes, like I did Fish_," he said imitating Butch's whiny tone. Oswald had learned a lot from her—but affection was not one of those things. He had nothing but icy feelings towards her, mingled with detached appreciation for what he had learned during his abusive servitude.

Oswald had no time for this dawdling. The cops were coming and some of them were not on the take—they were actually honest. But, because he was not sure which ones would be arriving—the choirboys or the hoodlums—it was time to leave.

He pulled the gun from his waist, hissing at the sting of his side as reached behind him to retrieve it from against the small of his back. His shirt was wet and sticking to his side. Butch looked at Oswald with detachment when the gun was pointed in his face. "Make your choice. _Now_." In the distance, they could hear sirens.

"They are a few blocks away," said Cassandra as she scanned the city, locating the blue and red lights as they flashed their way through the streets. She turned to Oswald. "We have to go now!"

"Well, Gabe—what will it be?"

Gabe said nothing. Instead, he glared at Oswald before turning towards the stairwell door. Oswald could feel the hatred radiating from Butch and decided to keep the gun pointed at the back of his head.

When they reached the bottom level of the building, Oswald surveyed the vehicles at his disposal and motioned for Cassandra to pull a tarp off the biggest door prize. She looked like a hostess on _The Price is Right_—quite worthy of "ohs" and "ahs".

Sigh._ Looks. Intellect. And, murderous rage_. He shook himself free of his rekindled longing to fondle her upon the leather upholstery of any one (or all!) of these vehicles.

"I have always wanted a Hummer," said Oswald as he instructed Gabe to get into the passenger side then proceeded to hit him again with the gun, knocking him out. He looked at Cassandra who was on the other side of Gabe and she grinned at him.

"No need to take chances, right?" she said. He jiggled his eyebrows and started the tiny tank—_really, people, stop leaving keys in plain sight_—before gunning it out of the warehouse and towards their new digs.

"I have a surprise for you," he told Cassandra.

"Oh, yeah?"

"You know that house I showed you—the one we both liked best—Falcone's stone one?" He glanced quickly towards her, long enough to see her face light up.

"Dracula's castle?" she asked, clasping her hands together. He laughed and chided himself for putting Butch in the middle.

"That is indeed the one to which I am referring," he answered. He paused for effect. "It is ours."

"Are you . . . _really_? Are you . . ." She unfastened her seatbelt and crawled over Butch, grappling to unhook him in order to push him onto the passenger side seat so she could be next to Oswald. Her derriere kept bumping against Oswald's shoulder in her struggle. Oswald gritted his teeth to keep from burrowing them into her backside.

_I could just pull over now. Just pull over and we could do it in the back. Or I will just dump Butch out and we will engage right here._ He wanted to bite the leather-clad moon that was in his face. _What I desire is literally right at the end of my nose. _He looked at the road, then stole another glance at her heart-shaped butt and knew those dimples were smiling at him from beneath that fabric.

_Dammit! Are we far enough away from downtown_? He glanced in his rearview mirror, feeling Cassandra settle beside him, squeezed in tight between the two men, having partly won her battle. Oswald almost laughed—she had held the foresight to re-strap them both in the belts. She turned to him and slowly snaked her arms around him, cradling his head and kissing the sides of his face and neck.

"You did it," she said. "I am so proud of you. I always have been." He grinned and felt himself turn red. He did not know why he was turning red. _I guess having been denied of praise for so long, it is embarrassing to receive it so generously_. _So honestly_. Still, he was glad Cassandra could not see him blush as she continued to lavish him with kisses as she spoke, every few words accompanied by a brush of her mouth against his skin.

"Thank you . . ." she whispered. "For being mine . . ." Soft lips. "For a son . . ." Wet lips. "For a home . . ." Plump lips. He was starting to break a sweat. "We will have to christen every room. A couple of times . . . a day," she purred. He jerked the steering wheel to the right and brought the vehicle to a screeching halt.

He turned to her. "We should christen this automobile as well. Being that it is also _new._ That is, to _us_." He leered at her and cocked one eyebrow as she leaned into him. Her face changed abruptly and Oswald widened his eyes, hesitantly looking over his shoulder out the driver's side window. A cop had just pulled up alongside them. The uniform's passenger window was down and he motioned for Oswald to lower his.

_Kee-rap_, thought Oswald as he put on his cheesiest grin and rolled down the window.

"Yes, officer?" he asked, his voice breaking a little. The officer looked at him and stretched to view Cassandra. From his position below them, he could not see Butch slumped in the seat.

"Car trouble?" he asked them. Oswald quickly played through the scenario in his head. If he said yes, the cop would offer to help and then realize there was not a problem. He would maybe . . . possibly . . . okay, _definitely_ see Butch, and more questions would arise, especially if he recognized the lackey. The cop did not seem to know who _he_ was—so that was a plus. Say _no_, but then what? Jeez, he will think I am a John and Cassandra is a hooker. He might ask for identification and that could lead to more trouble. He stared at his left hand as he tapped his pinky finger against the steering wheel. _A-ha_! Oswald held up his hand and flaunted his wedding band.

"Just married," he said. Cassandra leaned further over Oswald and held hers up too. It took a moment for it register, but then the officer's hairline visibly relaxed and he smirked.

"Okay, kids. Congratulations. But take it home. This is not a safe area and we have laws about . . ." he cleared his throat. "Public displays of affection."

"Of course, of course. You are so correct, officer. Thank you. Safety first!"

_Really_? _You REALLY just said that_? _Safety first_? _Who are you_? _Ward Cleaver_? _Or the Beav_? _Beaver Cleaver_?

Oswald made no move to shift the Hummer into drive and the cop motioned with his index finger for Oswald to go ahead of him. Cassandra heard her husband growl as he applied the gas and pulled back onto the road, effectively halting any immediate hanky-panky.

"Wait until I get you home, woman," he said in a low, soft voice. She wiggled into him, which only accomplished making his concentration on driving worse and his pants tighter. He felt her hand inch over his thigh and he shook his head.

"Do _not_ proceed. We will wreck. I can guarantee it." _Wow. I am an idiot_.

"Well, then. Just wait until I get you home, my man." Oswald tried to force a whimper back down to his gut, but it came out of his mouth anyway, and he licked his lips. Butch was stirring on the other side of Cassandra as he came to and rubbed his eyes. Oswald tried to focus all his attention on the road.

"Hey, did I miss anything?" he asked them. Oswald and Cassandra exchanged a humorous glance and stared ahead, not volunteering any answers.

"This isn't the way to Oswald's," he said, looking around. "Where are we going?"

Oswald sighed. "Home, Butch. _Finally_. We are going home." He placed his arm around Cassandra and she laid her head on his shoulder.

"Falcone's home?"

Oswald frowned. "Falcone's _former_ house. _Our_ home. Do you want me to hit you again?" Butch was silent for the rest of the ride.

The house was bright with lights when they pulled up. It looked warm and cheery, like it had just baked a cake. Other vehicles were there that Oswald recognized. They were the ones he was accustomed to using under Falcone and was pleased to see Gabe was still here. Oswald narrowed his eyes and grinned when he saw that Victor was present as well. A little surprise for Butch. He heard him curse in front of him and knew the man would have run except for the gun centered on his back.

The imposing mansion had been cleaned spick and span in a phenomenally short period of time, a trait of Falcone's proficient "clean-up" crew—Merry Mugs—as they were referred to behind their backs. _Always _behind their backs, never, _ever_ to their faces. Not unless you wanted to end up in one of their body bags. How many times had they deposed of Falcone's hits in the underside of a double coffin? Unsuspecting mourners burying slain men and women, hidden in a compartment beneath the bed of the coffin bought for their loved ones, never knowing another body was encased below their newly deceased. Falcone's business venture into the undertaking business was dead-on brilliant.

Gabe and a few crew members had already inspected the house for wires and booby traps and the cleaners had just vacated the place, leaving behind a fresh scent—a subtle pine—not the burn-your-nose-hairs-water-your-eyes kind that makes you think you might actually throw up the whole tree, but something pleasant and _mellow,_ that of which even Thoreau would have been proud.

Fara would be arriving with Boo and Gertrude, unless the boy was already asleep. It was important that his son be rested. Tomorrow they would all travel to City Hall to pick up the adoption papers.

Victor had dragged Butch away for more employee training, leaving Oswald wondering why it had not been drilled into Butch's head the first time, and was considering literally doing just that when Cassandra slid into his newly acquired meeting room made up of a long table, dark wood chairs, and a lit fireplace behind the throne. She was carrying a basket, rifling through it.

Oswald was as hot as the flames in the hearth and looked to his wife to douse him. He limped to her to claim some first aid, with her in complete oblivion as to what Oswald needed to be healed. Apart from the couple, the house was empty except for Gabe who was in another wing and would not hear anything.

"I have _here_ bandages, some hydrogen peroxide, iodine—" Her words were cut off by the sudden evasion of Oswald's tongue into her mouth. She was not complaining, although she did lose hold of the basket, its contents spilling, the bottles rolling under the table as they hit the floor. He walked her backwards at a furious pace, as if they were in some sort of Olympic marathon, until she was pinned between him and the granite wall.

As always, she smelled of gardenia and he still could not phantom how _so much strength_ was in her lithe, _soft _body as he hoisted her up and secured her legs around his hips, pressing against her as if he were trying to get through to the wall via her flesh. He bit her neck, careful not to break the skin, and she yelped before letting out a breathy, stunned laugh that turned into throaty sigh as her hands traveled up and down his back. He bit her again and felt her legs clench around him as she cried out, grabbing at his jacket right behind the shoulders.

"Y-y-your wound . . . I need to . . ." Oswald covered her mouth with his again and dug his fingers into her hair. Her mouth was sweet and slippery.

"I'm find," he said gruffly, maneuvering her head back and from side to side, into positions he wanted, in order to suck and nip on her according to whatever whim hit him. "Thank you, by the way . . ." Her left knee pushed onto gash causing a sharp twinge that Oswald ignored, choosing instead to pull on her hair.

Her breathing was becoming erratic and it further turned him on, especially listening to her as she tried to speak in between her gasps. "Bleeding . . . must cover . . . clean . . ."

"No . . . later. Thank you . . . arrows . . ." he answered. There was something about having her above him, looking up at her, that he liked. He was in control . . . _well, obviously, duh_ . . . but when he pushed her up and could feel her chin on the top of his head as he kissed her neck . . . he felt he was in control of her, protecting her, obeying her, and worshiping her . . . all at one time. He could not explain it. Not even to himself.

"Uh huh . . . welcome . . ." she managed, grabbing at a velvet drape that was hanging partially behind her and nearly dislodged it from its rings.

He took both her hands and held them in both of his, raising them above their heads against the cool stone. They were nose to nose and her breath was spicy like chewing gum. _Cinnamon_. He allowed the tip of his nose to lightly nuzzle hers, then her cheeks, before teasing her with just a hint of his tongue stroked across her lips.

Oswald relished the sensation of the rapid rise and fall of her chest against his, and he slowly, purposefully allowed his gaze to wander down to her cleavage, before looking back at her and grinding his front teeth. Giving her hands a squeeze, he abruptly released them and grabbed her face, kissing her like she was his only source of air.

Cassandra wrapped her arms around him tightly, hanging on for dear life, afraid if she let go, she may never see him again—never be able to touch him again.

Their sighs blended with the crackling of the fire and the moaning of the wind as it pressed against the windows, demanding to be let inside. Oswald related to that desperate, commanding wind wanting entrance into their home, as he continued to move against Cassandra, insisting on ingress.

Cassandra caressed his chest and abs with one freed hand, the other wrapped under his arm as she awkwardly supported herself by clutching his shoulder. As her free hand snaked its way down to other areas of his body, his kissing became more fervent and his breathing heavier, and he moaned as she explored the familiar terrain, unbuckling his belt in order to better excavate the treasure that lay underneath.

Cursing the pain in his leg, Oswald heaved her from the wall and managed to fumble to the head of the table where he collapsed with Cassandra still attached to him into the chair, where she remained astride his lap. She had hold of him and began to raise herself up and then back down in a slow, steady pace, like a roller-coaster traveling through glue. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face in her chest. When she moved up, he rose with her, and when she moved down, he blissfully descended.

She stopped moving. Oswald had to allow a moment for his eyes to focus as he looked at her, a playful grin upon her face. She partially stood and he jumped up, looking confused and grabbing her arm.

"_Where are you going_?" With his other hand, he touched his neck. _Damn. My voice is hoarse_, _and I sound like a sex-crazed teenager_, _and I am not. _He cleared his throat._ I am a sex-crazed adult_.

She laughed and touched his chest. "Nowhere. Now have a set, Mr. Cobblepot," she said, gently pushing him back down.

"With all due respect, Mrs. Cobblepot—the only seat I am interested in having is yours."

She laughed and Oswald's pupils dilated to take in the image. He relaxed his hands, just realizing that he had gripped the chair until his knuckles had whitened.

"Clever . . . _and _sexy. Two of my favorite traits in a man."

Oswald narrowed his eyes and felt a wave of jealously submerge him. "There better not be any other man that turns your head." He watched her eyes sparkle as she leaned towards him, placing her hands on either armrest and showcasing an inviting view down her shirt. Oswald licked his lips. He was ready to pounce.

_Just wait. Let her do this. She teases me so well_. "You are the only man that exists with those qualities, so it would be impossible for another to even live."

"Ah, so, you have known _individually _clever men and sexy men . . ." He was teasing _her_ now.

"I have known men who _thought _they were clever; men who _thought_ they were sexy; men who have _thought _they were intelligent; _thought_ they were patient; _thought _they were . . ." she smiled wickedly, and pointedly looked to Oswald's crotch. "_Blessed_." He felt himself go red.

Cassandra kneeled in from of him, resting her elbows on his knees and began to run her hands up his thighs. Oswald's eyes widened as she inched closer to her target. She continued her dissertation.

"But, there has only been one man who has held these traits, and other traits, which I find most appealing. Most _compelling_." The sound of her voice, the look in her eyes, mixed with her seductive words and the steady approach of her fingers and made Oswald's knees feel like jelly.

_I am supposed to be the one in charge here. I . . ._

He closed his eyes, glad he took that seat after all, otherwise his legs would have buckled.

She opened his shirt on the side where the wound was and cursed aloud, causing Oswald to peek from beneath his eyelids. "What is it?" he slurred.

"You're bleeding," she stated, and before he could respond, she had risen and retrieved the peroxide and a bandage. "For now," she said, seeing his pouty look. She resettled herself between his knees and hid his more sensitive flesh back under the folds of his pants, before casting him an emphatic glance. "This is going to burn."

_Damn! She was not lying_. Sadly, he was used to this type of pain. What he was not used to was someone caring.

Oswald watched as she patched him up, taking note as to how gentle she was trying to be. He wanted to chuckle, knowing that if she only realized the soreness she had caused the laceration moments ago from the pressure of her leg, she would react with worry and guilt and, quite possibly, forgo any more lovemaking until the gash had formed a scab.

He was going to do the wise and charitable thing and keep his mouth shut.

Unless Cassandra wanted to stick a body part in it. _Please let her want to stick a body part in it._

"There," she said, kissing the side of his bandaged wound. The gesture tickled and made his stomach muscles retract. "All better." She traced her finger around his belly button and the sensation was having the desired effect. Nobody could have her and he did not want anyone else.

"I love you," Oswald said.

"I love you, too," she responded, abandoning the medical supplies and offering him a flirty leer. "Now, were where we?"

A few seconds later, he was running his hands through his hair and clutching the back of the chair, pressing his head against the carved wood as Cassandra worked magic below his waist. That familiar contented fog started to settle in his brain.

_Do whatever you want to do to me, Cassandra_. Because sometimes—_only sometimes_, it was a release _not_ to be in control.

When his body finally relaxed, the tension gone, she climbed back up onto him and sat there skimming her fingers over his face. He closed his eyes and grinned, certain that he could be poured into a pitcher right now and put on a shelf for storage. She was watching him, he could feel her intently studying him and he began to blush.

"What are you doing?" he asked through a smile, not opening his eyes.

"Adoring you," she answered. "May I?"

He smiled wider. "Please continue."

Oswald very nearly fell asleep, with the warmth of Cassandra on his lap, the vague flutter of her fingertips as they played across his face, and the complete satisfaction that came from her inspired performance, he was pretty much a wet noodle. If it had not been for Fara's call informing them that Boo had fallen asleep earlier and Gertrude had dozed off with a book in her hand—she was looking at them both now, Oswald might have slumbered in the chair throughout the night. Instead, he and Cassandra took to a fur rug in front of the hearth and slept wrapped around each other until morning.


	88. Chapter 87

Chapter 87

Today was the day. His objective would be complete. He will have what he wanted. All of it.

So much had transpired in such a small amount of time—a whirlwind of dreams and blood and glitter and guile—culminating in Oswald's perfect idea of power, which was destruction of every one who stood in his way or offered even the most subtle slight while he gained and grasped and horded all that had been denied him. Was due him.

Striding out of the courthouse located at City Hall, his initial goals complete, Oswald could not help but think on the night before as he had lain prone beside Cassandra, watching a shadow of flames flicker across her body and glow behind her head as if she wore a halo. His arms were crossed in front of him, his head hunkered down like a soldier in a foxhole, peering out over the top. Like a child who believed in Santa, but still could not resist asking if he was real, Oswald probed Cassandra for what it had been about him that had first appealed to her.

"Your eyes," she whispered, leaning toward him and resting her chin on his upper arm. "You have the most beautiful, expressive eyes God has ever placed within the face of a man. When I saw them, I knew I was finished." She spotted a hidden grin in them as the corners crinkled in response to her answer. His nose suddenly constricted and felt congested as unwanted saline threaten to spill from his tear ducts. He blinked a few times. He knew in the firelight it would look as if he were just sleepy.

"I do not know what to say." He raised his head a bit, shaking it and looking at his arms. Not at her, anywhere but at her. She would see his embarrassment—even as delighted as he was with her answer, he was afraid he would never become accustomed to her guileless, straightforward compliments. He lowered his head back to its resting place, and thought further upon their first introduction, still perplexed.

"But, you addressed me as one would a normal person," he commented, his voice muffled from speaking into his skin. "As if there was nothing wrong with me." He knew there was nothing wrong with him, only . . . _he did not know it_. Not for sure. But Oswald was positive he was the sane one in this world—_it is everybody else around me who is crazy_, _devoid of empathy, not realizing how cruel they are_ _simply because they are intolerably insane_. Yes, _he _was the normal one. No matter how often he was led to believe otherwise.

These were the lies he told himself to make himself acceptable even to himself.

Forcefully his wife had told him, "There _isn't_ anything wrong with you. _Nothing_." Oswald had heard comforting words familiar to those only from his mother and rebuked himself for becoming quite overcome at Cassandra's strong reply, ducking his head down into the crook of his elbow to hide his eyes. She believed in him, loved him for everything he was—for everything he was not.

_I will not cry. I will not cry. I will not_ . . . He had felt her fingers skating upon his arm, over his shoulder, and to and fro across his back, weaving figure eights—infinity: boundless, limitless, forever. She kissed every scar he had and, for the first time, he gave thanks he had them.

She was thoughtful. Bossy. Brilliant. Insecure. Child-like. Funny. Stubborn. And just as vicious as he was and he loved it. _LOVED _her. She was his mate. Confidant. His _mon amore_. And secret weapon. There was no stopping them. There was no stopping _him_.

And, so here he was, on the steps of City Hall, overseeing his kingdom.

Deeply, he breathed in the invisible clouds of exhaust and humidity that permeated the Monday-morning air of Gotham. Oswald clutched the forged adoption papers, still reading them through with Cassandra peering at the documents over his arm, Boo propped up on her hip. It was final and complete. Everything was in order as much as an illegal document could be. Even his mother seemed to be so full of joy that she could not offer any criticisms. Gabe was beside himself as the proud uncle and Fara kept saying her allergies were bothering her as she dabbed at the flesh underneath her eyes.

They stood on the expansive portico of the building, domineered by tall marble columns that ran its length, but feeling like unconquerable giants as they looked down the wide steps that led to the sidewalk. Below them were the mere mortals who promenaded blithely, or forlornly, without concern that their realm had been subjected to a change of scepters. Oswald noticed as James Gordon got out of an unmarked car that had just pulled up behind a black-and-white and started talking with a few cops and possibly some undercovers as a handful gathered by the cars.

_Discussing my little playground antics, are we_? Oswald snickered and wondered into which godfather halfway home Jim and Bullock had dumped Falcone. He felt sure he would see the Don again, but for now, the mob boss was in hiding and out of the game. There had been a great many losses on The Roman's side, on _all_ sides really, and Oswald wondered if the man ever spared a thought for Liza. It almost made him sad for the mobster. Falcone could have had her with him all along. Oswald knew Liza had really liked the old guy.

He shook his head. _Tsk, tsk. Such choices we make_.

"What is it?" Cassandra asked him.

He looked at his wife and was certain the sun emitted from her. "Oh, nothing," he said, shyly looking back down to the documents. "I just cannot believe this is happening." He looked to her. "I am so happy!"

"So am I," she said and kissed him. Gertrude made a retching noise, but then cooed at Boo, grasping his pudgy hands and waggling them back and forth.

"Who's a pretty bird?" She asked him, kissing his little fingers. He laughed at her and looked back to his parents for approval. They grinned at him, and Cassandra placed a sloppy kiss on his cheek, which caused the child to laugh even more. Oswald puffed up his chest.

"Well, all. Let us proceed home." It was almost comical the way that he supported Cassandra who was cradling Boo, while she tried to hold Oswald who cautiously took each step one at a time, balancing himself on both her and his umbrella. Fara was behind the couple, while Gabe escorted Gertrud in front. At least, if Oswald lost his footing, he would tumble into Gabe instead of down the stairs.

"We are not going to that dark dungeon, are we?" Gertrud asked Oswald, glancing back over her shoulder.

"Yes, Ma, that is indeed the one. It has _ambiance_." He rolled his eyes and looked at Cassandra.

"If it was a funeral home, I would agree with you," his mother retorted.

Cassandra intervened. "I think it's exquisite," she said. "I have always preferred dark wood and stone to . . ." She was about to insult Gertrud's decorative skills of lace and pink frills, but thought better of it. "To most anything else. Besides—the place has character and a past. Perhaps there is an old-world history to the house you could discover, mother Gertrud. Maybe it had once been a home to royalty."

Gertrud tilted her head and raised her eyebrows. "Could be, could be," she grunted. The idea was not completely unappealing. "Our ancestors were quite influential. Some heirlooms passed down from sovereignty and many other very important leaders. Too many to name or count. Of course, now it's gone. All lost."

Oswald's stomach twisted. He was not sure if it was years of pent-up paranoia and self-loathing, but his mother always managed to make it sound like he was personally responsible for the loss of the family fortune and the straits in which they had been in for years. He was her only living offspring so, he reasoned, it _would_ be up to him to support her. Well, _now_ he could, in high fashion.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Oswald paused and turned to Gabe.

"A moment, please," he told them, wobbling away from his guards and mother, still securely holding onto Cassandra.

Oswald's target was James. He wanted to show the man that he had risen to the top after all, and they were on equal footing, figuratively speaking, of course. Show the detective that he had mastered normalcy quicker than Gordon.

Steady job—that is what a monarchy is, is it not?

Respect—_sure_ it meant icing off a few people here and there to gain it, _but what could one do_?

He was married—while Jim still dawdled with Lee and occasionally thought about Babs, Oswald had a wife . . . a lover . . . his most treasured friend, to not only come home to, but someone who would fight beside him.

And speaking of home, he had one of those too—_a real home_, with impressive décor and too many rooms to count—not a shabby, crumbling, barely three-roomed apartment with worn curtains and complimentary insects for pets.

Oswald did not see the form of Harold Allnut as the misshapen man broke into a wide grin. He was across the street and had seen Cassandra. Clutching his palm to his chest as he twisted his fingers into his shirt and waited until the light turned from the hand to the walking stick figure, indicating that it was now safe for pedestrians to cross the street.

At last! He had found her and he could tell her, could let her know that they were coming, and he would do anything she wanted him to do to keep her safe. A movement to the left caught his attention, an SUV out of control, then he heard several gun shots and people started yelling and scrambling for cover.

He looked back over to the sidewalk in front of City Hall and saw Cassandra prostrate on the concrete. The man she was with was crying out, and the police had taken cover and started firing back. Harold did not know what to do. Retreating to the security of the corner he had just left, Harold considered his options.

What could he do? Did anyone of them know sign language? He doubted it. They would just laugh at him, dismiss him, or throw him in jail only to have him sent back to Illinois with his guardian. Harold knew he must stay in Gotham, wait to find out what became of her. If she died, he would leave. If she lived, he would stay. Simple as that. He would just have to be patient. With one last glance towards Cassandra and a miserable sigh, he disappeared into the shadows.

Oswald could not understand what was happening. He had caught Cassandra and Boo before they could hit the pavement and held the bloodied forms of his wife and son, he himself drenched in red, rocking them back and forth.

"_I-I don't understand_!" he yelled out to whomever would listen. "_Th-there wasn't anybody left_!" Spit flew from his mouth as he cried. "_B-but_, _I got them all_! _No one is supposed to be left_! _There's no one left_! _Cassandra_! _Cassandra, can you hear me_?" There was blood at the corner of her mouth, and she offered him a weak grin, and tried to pat his chest. It seemed to Oswald that all of her strength went into that one simple gesture.

How many times had she been hit? Why wasn't Boo crying?

He removed the little boy from her loose grasp and shook him. _Why won't he cry_? He shook him again. _Cry_! The tot looked as if he had been dipped tummy first in a puddle of bright red paint. _Nooooooo_! He held the child in the crook of one arm, very nearly covering him from sight, as he tore open Cassandra's shirt. Her entire torso was red, from neck to hip and the blood was pouring out of two, maybe three wounds. _What is it_? _Two or three_? He was in shock and could not be sure.

Oswald could not tell if he was moving fast or slow, only that he tried to stop the bleeding. He could not. And, the bullets were still flying. He stared at Cassandra whose eyes were tearing up. They were hidden behind a blue postal mail drop box and he could hear the bullets hitting the metal. Oswald smoothed back her hair..

"Don't you leave me! You_ promised_!" He could hear sirens. The ambulances were coming! _They will save my family_! _They will live_! "I will be very, very upset with you if you leave me!"

She whispered something to him. "What? What was that, my love?" He leaned in closer.

"Remember you said . . . I could request something . . ." She spat up some blood, and Oswald wilted. "Remember?" He nodded his head. "Take care of Boo," she said. "He . . ." She coughed. "He's the _Prince of Gotham_," she whispered, offering a weak smile.

He nodded his head, not having the heart to tell her that he was certain Boo was already dead. "Okay," he said, still putting pressure on her wounds. "I will do—." That was when his vision went dark as he passed out, the blast of gunfire echoing in his ear.

He could feel the pavement beneath his head and someone kicked his arm while moving around him. How long had he been lying here? The shots had diminished.

"_You fool_," hissed a male voice. "I told you to shoot _him_, not _her_. We need _her_!" Swimming before his eyes were two EMS workers, loading Cassandra onto a stretcher, and he tried to speak to them, but his head hurt too badly and he felt like throwing up.

The other person spoke, but Oswald could not see the man's face, although there was something about his voice and mannerisms that seemed familiar. "Well, I shot him _now_! I wanted to do it days ago! I don't know why you don't take him as well and let me carve him up. Without _me _you would have never known the connection. It's not _my _fault he killed Fish before you could!"

"My decisions are no concern of yours."

Oswald could feel himself start to drift into a brown haze again but fought it, gathering Boo and standing up, not understanding what he had just heard, but following the men to the ambulance to get his son some help.

Oswald could not keep up. He felt sick. His legs buckled and he went down on one knee, the deformity of his bad leg flashing blade-worthy stabs of pain through his nerves and muscle. Dizziness besotted him and he reached up to inspect his forehead. He actually could feel that flesh was missing from above his brow, near his temple, as blood cascaded down his face. It hurt, but it was not fatal.

"_W-w-ait_ . . ." He steadied himself against a police car until the nausea passed, leaving a crimson handprint on the white hood of the vehicle. The gunfire had stopped, but there was still chaos all around him. He was so _damn tired_ of the chaos.

"Oswald!" It was Jim. He came running up like The Lone Ranger to Oswald's side. His eyes were big as he took in Oswald's appearance and the motionless form of the little boy.

Oswald looked to Jim, pleading. "Stop them . . . I have to give them Boo."

Jim called out to the workers and one of them turned around, looking directly at Oswald, who felt his blood run cold. The man stuck his tongue out at him.

_It cannot be_! thought Oswald. _I yanked that tongue out of his mouth over two weeks ago_!

Oswald stared at Kim "Phil" Jong who was supposed to have died of natural causes the direct result of torture outside of Gotham City more than a fortnight ago—and would have if he had not fallen into the vengeful clutches of a Dr. Dulmacher. _Concentrate_, _Oswald. Will your mind to work_.

When Oswald saw that the Asian man's new employer was less than pleased with Phil's job performance—having locked him out of the ambulance—Oswald found his rage, made more powerful by newly pumping adrenaline, and threw his knife at the man, wounding him in the leg.

The next thing Jim knew, Oswald had commandeered the police cruiser. Per usual, the keys were in the ignition. "_WAIT_!" Jim yelled. Before Oswald could pull from the curb, Jim was in the vehicle holding a gun at Oswald's head.

"Shoot me, Jim!"

"Pull over!"

"Shoot me! That's not a real ambulance!" Oswald sped into the street and stared down Phil who was crouching on the street having been just deserted by his cohort. The last thing Phil saw was the grill of a police car as hit shattered his skull. Oswald lamented losing a perfectly good switchblade.

Phil's body acted as a speed bump as it crunched and popped under the weight of the vehicle and caused Gordon to lose hold of the gun. He braced himself against the door and the upholstery before strapping himself in.

"What do you mean—that's _not a real ambulance_?"

"That man is supposed to be dead!" He yelled, referring to the man he had just run over.

"How do you know?"

"_I just know, all right_! _And now he's got my wife_! He's taken my Cassandra!" Oswald was sobbing freely now and exerted pressure on the gas pedal to catch up to the vehicle. "And, he took my son. _He took my son_!" He yelled, referring to the limp child that Oswald had in his lap.

Jim thought now was not a good time to bring up the fact that another ambulance had transported Gertrud to the hospital for a suspected heart attack. He looked toward his gun on the floor.

"You need to pull over."

"Not a chance."

"Your son has lost a lot of blood, but we could still get him to a hospital." Jim was grasping at straws. Now was not the time to feel for a pulse, but with the amount of blood covering the front of the boy's clothing, Jim felt certain the child had already passed away. Still, he used that line in order to offer some hope to Oswald, no matter how cruel it was that Jim was doing so just to get him to stop the car.

Oswald did not answer. Instead he pinched his nose to wipe some snot away and roughly rubbed his tears off his face, fraught with the decisions that were facing him. More damn decisions. _What if Boo is still alive_? _Is he forfeiting his son's life for his wife—who may already be dead_? _What if it is the other way around_? He banged angrily on the steering wheel.

"I'm going to kill them! I'm going to kill them, Jim!" They were on the outskirts of Gotham, where the city slowing stripped itself of its urban clothing to slip into something a little more comfortable, something a little more rural. Oswald's driving was becoming erratic and he kept weaving.

"Pull over!" Jim ordered him for the umpteenth time, knowing it was doing him no good to order the distressed man into do anything he did not want to do. He unbuckled his belt to retrieve the gun on the floorboard. "_Now_!" Jim was sliding around on the leather seat, and cursed as he placed the gun back into his holster, just to buckle up. Secured, he retrained his weapon back Oswald. "Cobblepot!"

"_No_!" Oswald could still see the ambulance up ahead, even if his vision seemed a little blurry. "Jim, you can point that gun at me all you want!" Death would not stop him. "You could have shot me already! You know you're not going to!"

"Try me," shouted Jim.

Somewhere came a low humming that turned into a bellow and then outright, terrified bawling. Oswald lifted his foot from the gas only out of stunned surprise. Boo lifted his head and howled, tears streaming down his face, made red not with blood, but with the forcefulness of his shrieking. Oswald smiled.

"H-h-he's not dead! Boo, you're not dead!" He pressed the child against him as if a tornado threatened to rip him out of his arms. Jim holstered his weapon and stretched out his arms.

"Let me see him."

Oswald kept driving, looking at Jim skeptically and frowning at the man.

"_Let me see him_," he repeated. "I need to check him for wounds." Oswald nodded and started crying again when he had to pry Boo's fingers from shirt and then work his own fingers out from Boo's hand. Oswald dragged his arm across his nose and eyes, and reapplied pressure to the gas. He felt poorly, quite poorly, and he almost ran off the road. Boo kept reaching for him, his cries broke Oswald's heart.

"It's okay, Boo," Oswald said, "It's okay. Everything will be okay." Although he did not believe it himself. Still, he had to cling to that last little bit of hope. Find Cassandra. Get medical treatment for her and Boo. Pick up where they had left off this morning before the attack.

"Oswald," Jim said slowly, before settling Boo down in his own lap, trying to comfort the child by rocking him. Oswald did not answer, but instead had to veer again to keep from crossing the divider line, and then over corrected as he started to leave the road on the opposite side. "_Oswald_." Jim thought the man looked rather pale. And, that was saying a lot considering the man's natural shade was milk.

He glanced at Jim, who noticed his eyes were truly glazed. "There are no wounds on him. Not a mark," the cop told him.

Oswald laughed in relief and slung his head back to watch the road, his bangs hanging in between his eyes. "Fantas-stlick . . ." He felt a little bit like those crazy people with which he was so sure he had nothing in commune . . . no _common_. "But . . . that's imposs-bull. There's so murch blood." He was starting to slur his words. "It cud be Cassandra's." He jerked his head backward to keep it from hitting his chest. Jim looked at Oswald's torso.

"I don't think so," he said, as he held up Oswald's shirt with his free hand. There was a definite hole in Oswald's gut and blood continued to stream from the cavity. Pressure from Boo's body had probably helped to stave off Oswald bleeding to death, slowing down the flow.

"Oswald . . ."

"I haven't brine shot . . ." _It was absurd_. "I haven't . . ."

The last thing Oswald heard, besides his son wailing, was Jim calling his name and the sound of breaking glass before his world went completely black.


	89. Chapter 88

Chapter 88

_Beep_.

_What was that_? Oswald heard it again.

_Beep_.

_Where am I_? _There is something on my face. In my nose. It tickles. Chilled air. Oxygen_? He peered through drugged-induced eyes and tried to get his bearings. _I do not understand. What is happening_? _Where is Cassandra_? _Boo_? _Mother_?

He saw the machines out of his hazy peripheral vision.

Heart monitor. IV bags. _Hospital_.

He started to panic, trying to move, but his arms felt as if the blood and bone had been replaced with cement and rocks. His heartbeat increased.

_Beep. Beep_.

"He is coming round." He heard someone say. He tried to answer, but could not. His mouth was parched.

"Get his heartrate down. With all the pain medication being pumped into him, we do not need for him to have a heart attack."

"Mr. Cobblepot, sir, relax," said the nurse. She was right in his face, swimming before his eyes. He became nauseated. "He does not look well."

"What do you expect for a man that has been shot in the stomach? Give him this, it will calm him—he may fall back to sleep."

_No. I do not want it_! _I want my wife_! _Cassandra_!

He remembered. Not a Gotham ambulance. Not EMS. She is gone. _They took her, they took her_ . . .

_Beep. Beep. Beep_.

"It's speeding up. His blood pressure is rising. How many milligrams?"

_I need to leave_! _Do not give me that medicine_!

"There, there, Mr. Cobblepot. This will calm you. Must not have you getting anxious." She fed the needle into the tube.

_No_! _No, no, no_ . . . _please, no_ . . . He saw a familiar face to his lower right. Bullock. _Oh, God. Something really IS wrong. Even he is looking at me with pity_. _He is turning to go_.

_Wait_! _Detective_! _Wait_! _Do not leave . . . something . . . you have to . . . find . . . where is she? Where is . . . where's . . . _

Oswald wept himself back into darkness_. _

_Beep._

_How many days had passed_?

"He is coming around again."

"How is his blood pressure?"

"As can be expected." There was a pause, then a scrawling sound like someone scribbling down a note.

"That is still high."

"More anxiety medication?"

_Beep. Beep_.

"_No_," came a feeble whisper. The nurse and doctor turned to look at Oswald.

"Mr. Cobblepot?" They both leaned into his face. He felt like an animal on display at the zoo.

"_Yes_ . . ." His voice was raspy. "_My wife . . . there was a child_ . . . _my mother_ . . ."

"We will get to that soon enough—"

"Get to it _now_ . . ." It did not come out forcefully, although he had tried. He attempted to grasp the doctor's scrubs, but could not raise his arms. His eyes became wet with angry, fearful tears. The doctor touched his shoulder.

"You must stay calm. If you want to recover. Heal well."

"_My wife_ . . . Her name is _Cassandra._ Jim Gordon. Bring me _Detective James Gordon_." _Beep. Beep. Beep_. "Do it _now_ . . ." he tried to shout, but it all came out a whispered hiss.

"Sir, calm down," said the doctor, straightening up. "Nurse." He saw the doctor motion for her to shoot more medicine into the tube.

"_I said, no_ . . ." Oswald growled weakly, then pleaded. "_Please, I beg of you. I said no_ . . ." The doctor ignored his pleas and motioned again for the nurse to inject the tube with the needle. "_I will remember you . . . I do not . . . forget . . . or forgive_ . . ." Oswald slurred as he drifted off.

_Beep_.

"Congratulations, Mr. Cobblepot. You get to home today."

_Home_. He sneered at the word. _To what_? _To whom_?

He may not have been able to move or articulate his words on a daily basis—in the beginning—but throughout the ordeal, his ears had worked _just fine_.

Cassandra shot, gone. Boo removed, adoption dissolved. Mother heart attack, and still unconscious. Who knew if she would ever wake up. _I am exhausted. You win, forces that have conspired against me. You win_.

He wished he _had _killed himself in his youth.

A glance outside the hospital window revealed a typical Gotham day. Dreary. It was perfect.

He had just been discharged from the hospital and instead of heading down, he headed up.

Cassandra had been taken from him. Boo had been taken from him. His mother, who lay in a coma, had been taken from him. What did he have left?

He had forgotten how many days they said he had been in intensive care before being moved to another part of the hospital for recovery and monitoring. He did not recall because he had only been half listening to anything that was said to him unless it referenced those three people, particularly Cassandra and Boo. Particularly Cassandra.

It had been easy to get to the roof of the building. No locks or alarms to signal to anyone that somebody was up here. He was a well-dressed man, albeit unshaven and haggard faced, and the public was just beginning to know who he was—who would stop him?

Who cared?

Oswald Chesterfield Cobblepot surveyed Gotham City.

"_I hate you_," he spat.

The pain in his gut was dull. He had lost a lot of blood and had been out cold for a number of days. The bullet had passed through and had damaged some organs, torn muscle. The surgeon had needed to remove his spleen and repair his liver. He had continued to let them pump him full of pain medication after surgery—after he realized the fate of his family, signaling for the nurse every time he found himself nearing _anything_ that resembled consciousness and asked for more of the anesthetizing nectar.

Once he realized it was hopeless.

He had overheard them speaking during one of his soul-deadening trips.

_Did not they know of the stories of people in comas being able to hear every word uttered in their presence? It is the same for people under partial sedation. I can hear you. Please stop talking._

But they had not.

Oswald had been forced to listen as the doctor spoke in low tones with James Gordon. The physician had explained that even if Cassandra had been alive upon her kidnapping, without immediate medical attention, there was no way she could have possibly survived. Word of Boo's existence brought Ann's mother out of the woodwork and she applied for immediate custody seeing as how the adoption papers had been . . . _compromised_—but not to worry—she was a decent lady.

_Go away_, Oswald told them in his head. _But not before you pump me full of more juice._

Things continued to look bad for Gertrud—there had been no improvement in her current condition.

_Just turn on the drip until I am dead._

He could feel a presence at his side and struggled to open his eyes. The lids felt like lead, which reminded him of ACME products, which reminded him of a cartoon of an incompetent hapless villain, which made him start laughing. James frowned down at him, and signaled for a nurse. The one who had been with him since the beginning came and checked Oswald's vitals while he continued to laugh and then fed him some more of the pain medication.

_Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you . . ._

His laugh trailed into snickers and then into a sigh and then into his silence. Everything went dark.

For days he was in and out of semi-consciousness, never being fully conscious at any time. The GCPD had wanted to talk to him about the incident but, thankfully, James would not allow any of the other cops to bother him—said he or Bullock would be the only ones allowed to interview him and, of course, Captain Essen, if she deemed it absolutely necessary. Oswald was at least grateful for that. He did not know about the fuss it had caused within the precinct since James had played a significant part in what had taken place.

Once Oswald was forced into remaining conscious—except when he slept—the nurses insisted that he get up and start walking around to prevent any post-surgery blood clots from forming. He refused to amble through the corridors in his gown, so he resigned himself to taking turns about his room. He never stopped asking for pain medication, and on occasion, he got it. Never enough to knock him out, but just enough to dull his senses, and that would have to do.

_Just leave the bag, please, I'll drink it, and perchance—do you have a straw?_

Now he was here, on the roof of the hospital, recently discharged, partially high and ready to meet death.

He climbed onto the four-foot tall cement and brick blockade that separated him from the promise of certain demise_—_which was the point. Being that he was already unsteady from his maimed leg, the effects from the medication made him even more wobbly, but he paid it no heed. It was the swoop of a pigeon that actually made him jerk back and as a result balance him.

That made him laugh. _I'm_ _absurd_, he thought. He had avoided the bird to not have an eye taken out by its beak right at the moment he intended to fling himself off the roof of the building. He appreciated the humorless joke.

_Even in death, even in death . . . I am teased._

The wind flapped his red scarf and pulled at his hair. He felt his coat beat round his legs and Oswald cast a final gloomy eye upon Gotham City.

_To be or not to be, is no longer the question._

"A bird," he murmured. "I am a flightless bird . . ."

"What was that, Cobblepot?" said a familiar voice. _Dammit. Bullock. I should have barricaded the door. _He sighed.

"Get down from that ledge, Oswald," said another male voice. _James_. Unbelievable.

"I will shoot you if you don't get off that ledge, Cobblepot—on this side of the building!" yelled Bullock. Oswald snorted and nodded his head.

"That's funny, Detective Bullock!" he called out.

"Oswald! Listen to me! She's still alive!" shouted James. Oswald froze. "Cassandra is still alive!" he repeated.

"That's a lie!" he called to him over his shoulder. "I heard you and the doctor talking. That's a lie—you have no right to talk about her—no right at all!"

"No, I think Jim's right!" Bullock jumped on that line of reasoning. "I can feel it, Cobblepot. You really want to go over that edge without knowing for sure? We have all lost someone we care about—love even . . ."

"Hah!" Oswald swung around, surprisingly graceful. His coat billowed around him like the wings of a dark angel—a messenger of death. He stood as a menacing silhouette against the gray Gotham sky and yet was oblivious to the imposing figure he presented. Despair blinded him. "What would you know about _love_, Bullock, with your rent-a-whore compulsion?" he spat.

"Hey!" James interjected, and Oswald turned his fury on him.

"Or _you_—playing at it, like it is some kind of child's game!" His nose was running and he paused to rub the snot away with his sleeve. "It doesn't mean _anything_ to you! The two of you!" He hung his head and slumped his shoulders. "Anything at all . . ." he sobbed.

Bullock and Gordon took this moment of resignation on Oswald's part as an opportunity to grab him and pull him down onto surer footing where he crumbled upon the pebbly surface, relishing in the agony from his knee that knifed its way through the rest of his leg.

"Well, it meant something _to me_." His face was wet, but he did not bother wiping away the tears. "_She_ meant something—_everything_—to me." Oswald barely got the words out.

He deserved no better. He was a failure. He was nothing and no good. His father had been right all along.

"We will find her," said James, kneeling. "I promise."

"Like you found the Wayne's murderer?" asked Oswald. James squeezed Oswald's shoulder and stood up.

"Are you coming with us, Cobblepot, or do I need to send someone up here with a straightjacket?" asked Detective Bullock. When Oswald did not answer him, Bullock pulled him up, and Oswald winced from the throbbing of his leg and the pinch of the stitches in his side and below his chest.

He could hear the pipes from the hospital come to life as the steam flowed through them, and he inhaled deeply, taking in the mixed odor of the rooftop's tar and gravel. He listened to the sirens and the clatter from the construction work rising from the streets below. He watched as the lights from nearby windows were either darkened or illumed. He imagined he could feel the rumble of the subway beneath his feet, shaking his whole body. He could taste the soot from every dirty corner of the city in the back of his throat.

Gotham was alive and he resented it.

_You thought you could destroy me, Gotham? I will unleash a storm of hell upon you now. Like a scavenger, I will track your dying and consume them. I will stalk your living and rip them to shreds. You have destroyed me through the years, bit by bit, killing me. Well, you have succeeded. There is nothing left. Soon there will be nothing left of you. I shall rejoice in your destruction. If you cannot love me, respect me, even pity me, all right then—have it your way—you will fear me. _

_Yes, there _is _a war coming, and _I _am the one to bring it. Let the war on Gotham begin._

_Thanks for giving me a reason to exist._

They led him back down the cold stairwell and into the hospital where they were greeted by a very excited nurse.

"We have been trying to reach you, Mr. Cobblepot," she grinned like someone posing for one of those glamour shots that used to be popular among teenage girls with bouffant hair and their mothers who were revisiting their youth. "Your mother is awake."

_Mother_! Oswald hobbled after the nurse to his mother's bedside and grasped her hand as she stretched it out to him. Gordon and Bullock respectfully hung back, not entering the room, then chose to move on. Today's drama with Cobblepot was over. He would live to cause them trouble another day.

Oswald kissed his mother's hand and brushed her hair back from her face.

"Mother, I was so worried." Gertrud had no idea that she was the last, thin string of sanity that was not only keeping Oswald alive, but preventing him from transforming into a total monster. Had she have known, she might not have asked to see her grandchild at that moment. But, then, again, it would not have been within her nature to inquire about Oswald's injuries since a finer specimen had come along.

_This is my fault_, he thought, as his face tightened_. I did this. No. Cassandra did this. If she had only stayed put. Not come to the city. If she had not spoken to me. Been kind to me. I would not be in this mess, except for her. Heartache. This pain. _

"He is not here, Mother."

Gertrud gasped and withdrew her hand, covering her mouth. "Is he . . . ?"

"He is not dead, if _that_ is what you are asking. His _real _grandmother has him." The dig hurt her, and it had hurt him to say it. "I am fine, by the way. Recovering as best I can. Cassandra is gone. Not that I expect you to care, but in case you do." He nodded, his mouth turned downwards. "They took her, Ma." His voice cracked.

She regarded him with trepidation and then reclaimed his hand. "Oh, my darling boy. My baby. Mama's good boy. Just the two of us, again, heh? Like the old days. Like it was meant to be. My boy and me. Everything will be all right. You'll see."

Gertrud patted him on the face, resigned to picking up where she left off before Cassandra entered the picture. It was better this way. Oswald would come to accept it. They were "somebodies" now. Important. Gabe had made sure of it. This made her happy and she wanted to dream of all the new dresses and furniture and jewels she would own, the parties she would host and be invited to attend. The men who would court her—of course, she would not mention that last bit of fantasy to Oswald, and the boards she would sit on, become chairwoman of, perhaps. She feigned tiredness and closed her eyes, pretending to rest. Soon she would shrug off this burdensome world for a new sparkly one.

Oswald sat down in the cushioned metal chair beside her, pulling it up to the bedside. It grated along the scuffed tile floor—reminding him of a teacher raking her nails down a chalkboard, and there was a hole in the dingy grey seat—he could see the spongy tan material as it tried to escape.

Soon he could take Gertrude home. To any home she wanted. He had acquired so many of as late. Let her pick. Lady's choice. It would be fun to take her around to the different residences, like a child at show-and-tell, and let her decide which house, apartment, condominium . . . she wanted them to live in. Move her in when she was ready, when she chose.

Cassandra had liked the dark mahogany and the scattered candelabras in the one he had suggested, showing a particular interest in the crest that dominated the main room. The fireplace, also, did not escape her attention, nor did the impressive chair—his throne—she had called it, as she saddled up into his lap that first night of victory. Their only night together in that intimidating fortress. He shut his eyes, remembering.

_Could James Gordon be right_? _Was she alive_?_ Is someone hurting her_? The thought made him retch and he sat further up, reaching just in time for the trashcan. It hurt to vomit. There was a little blood. He did not care. Gertrud touched his head as his body shook.

"I am all right, Ma," he lied, gasping for air and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. What was there to throw up _anyway _besides blood? He had barely consumed anything save for water and air since he had woken, and now the orange gelatin they had forced him to eat was in the cheery yellow aluminum trashcan. Spread on the bottom of the wastebasket, mixed with a string of his stomach's blood, the glistening former occupant of his gut looked like a flame.

_I will need to keep up my strength_. He nodded to himself like a good little soldier, determined. _If I am to find her, I cannot have her seeing me sallow and wasted away_.

_WHEN I am to find her. When_.

_Somehow, I will locate you and fetch you home, _his anger toward her, dismissed.

He leaned back and thought of a farm that used to sit on swampland a few miles outside of Gotham that housed a woman named Cassandra who wore white linen and smelled of gardenias.


	90. Epilogue for Part One

EPILOGUE

Weeks passed and Oswald found that all he did most days was sit and stare. Sometimes it was out the window, other times it was at the computer screen, but mostly he stared at nothing, lost in his thoughts. And, occasionally, he did not bother to think at all—frozen in self-pity, afraid of making a mistake, anxious over every decision, believing that any one of them might in some way harm Cassandra wherever she was, or perhaps place Oswald on a path further away from her discovery. Many nights, he found himself kneeling at the porcelain throne in the bathroom, his psyche ridding itself of that day's stress, rather than claiming the cushioned throne from which he had fought to reign.

Gertrud had retreated back to her apartment, not happy with the shadowy mansion Oswald continued to haunt after he decided to no longer be a melancholy prisoner of the lounge. She wanted to recuperate among her pretty, familiar things, not even opting for the vacant room above Oswald's where he could keep closer tabs on her since she refused to live with him. Until she was well, she told him, she wanted to be in the comfort of her apartment to regain her strength so that she may better inspect the other properties Oswald was offering her. In the meantime, Oswald stayed in the barren, Gothic cathedral, lighting the fireplace and breathing in the acrid smoke. If only he could carry it with him.

He had avoided the trip to his heart's home above the bar for as long as he could. It had been difficult for him to go back there—to Oswald's—to gather not only his things, but to have to touch _hers_ as well.

After his hospital stay, the first few days back in his club, was agony. Oswald was inconsolable, locking himself in their bedroom and refusing food, not coming out. His hospital resolution that he would be in tiptop shape to meet her again had been snuffed out the moment he stepped foot into their small chambers.

Why had he not remembered the strong scent of gardenia that would linger? He was being smothered, he could not breathe, and immediately lost his appetite for any sustenance, including the oxygen that battered him from all sides. That is when the nightmares started. Where once insomnia had claimed him, now anguish-filled dreams imprisoned him, relentless in the ghastly images that danced across his mind—a grotesque parade of twisted bodies set to the music of unhuman screams—a fresh hell every night that led to him waking in cold sweat.

_I am going crazy_. _The devils, they haunt me_. _My poor, darling, Cassandra. Is this were your nightmares took you_? _How did you not abandon the rational bounds of reason and slip into assured lunacy_? _Do your phantoms still cling to you like toilet paper on the heel of a shoe_?

With no leads other than a crushed body and a few bullets—including the one pulled from Oswald's stomach, the search came to a standstill. There were other cases more important to the GCPD, and the only thing Oswald's associates could bring him was nothing. He ended up throwing every one of the gardenia plants out the window, having breathed a sigh of relief as the last one hit the pavement, only to remove his handkerchief out of his vest pocket and have the waxy leaf he had tucked there from a previous night spiral to the floor, coming to rest against his shoe. He found that he now imitated a rusted tin-man, standing still with a crooked arm, staring down at the dark green leaf that lay atop his bad foot, as shiny as his wingtips.

_Oh, God, when will this end_?

He picked it up and walked back to the window, dangling the foliage over the edge, teasing it with death.

How many minutes went by, he could not tell, but he finally let go. It did not fall quickly, seeming instead to linger there, begging for his mercy, before gravity overtook it, and Oswald immediately regretted his decision. He let out a sob, feeling as if he were throwing the last scrap of anything good and hopeful in his heart down into the gutter and the sewage below and made up his mind to rescue that leaf.

Not waiting on the elevator, Oswald speedily limped his way down the staircase, holding his side as muscles and stitches fought each other, and waddled out the door into the alley, the smell of rot from the dumpster flooding his nasal passages. Dead and dying gardenias laid around him like the wounded of war, diminishing any chance of finding the sprig he had just exiled.

_I do not do anything right_. _What would it have hurt to have kept the leaf_? Most people pressed flowers for keepsakes, but not him. Not Oswald. He had felt sorry for the leaf the night it had fallen from the tiny bush. He had to find it. Save it. Protect it. It needed him.

He broke down with relief when the leaf, who had won favor from the wind, fluttered down beside him and landed again on his shoe.

_Like this leaf, she will come back to me_. It was not a sign, he did not believe in those. It was just a fact, being played out on his leather wingtips. He had been the one to drop the leaf, and the one to retrieve it.

Placing the leaf back within his pocket and patting it for good measure, Oswald considered rescuing the dying flowers at his feet, but could not bring himself to do so. They had started withering away without Cassandra there to tend for them properly. He could no longer watch them perish. He wanted to remember them in full bloom. Truth be told, he did not want to remember them at all. He would put the leaf aside in box with her things, then brick them up in his mind, enclose them behind a wall, and forget about them.

But he could never seem to remember to forget. _Do you spare a thought for me, Cassandra_? _Look at the sky and know I see it too and that under it, I still search for you_.

Oswald found it was more prudent to wail at night, when the band was playing, when no one could hear him. On the nights he was drained from crying and could not force another sound out his sore body, he would sit there on the bed, rocking back and forth and absentmindedly thud his closed fist against his chest. Always in the dark, never turning on a light, unconcerned about not being able to see clearly, forever guided by the laser-like beams of the streetlamps slicing through the curtains or the dawn encroaching upon him every single damn day. And, still the nightmares persisted as that sweet gardenia aroma continued to linger. It was in the walls and the furniture and the silk sheets.

Once his things were gathered, he would not come back here. Not to these intimate rooms. Then he thought of the makeshift armory and closed his eyes. _Please, please, I beg whatever, whoever hears me, please spare me from the scent of these flowers. Do not allow their sweetness to permeate my umbrellas._ He hesitated, leaning on the dresser for support, but did not walk down to inspect the weapons. _I will check another day_, he decided.

Oswald had made sure his mother was comfortably back in her apartment, her refrigerator and cupboard fully stocked, setting his mind at ease that she was safely tucked away, back in her home were light shone in through every window. Back where Gertrud was content among her pastel pillows and fringed lamps, away from the noise of the club, and the moodiness and darkness of the mansion, made more so by Oswald's grief. Because Oswald was paralyzed in his sorrow, Fara graciously went each day to check on her to make sure she was eating, and would sometimes stay the night on account of Gertrud's physical state. The old bat was recuperating better than her boss.

He had been near to full recovery when the GPS system in both Cassandra's locket and phone had started moving back towards Gotham. _She is home_! He had thought to himself, bursting through the door of his office only to find it empty except for the stack of mail on his desk. With it, sat a brown-papered package.

Plants wither and decay when not given life-sustaining water and light, and Oswald resembled the gardenias he was unable to cultivate—white and thin and dull around the edges, becoming brittle. He knew what was in the bundle, so neatly wrapped and tied with twine, but the compulsion to open it anyway overwhelmed him and he took a seat at his desk, moving the package to directly in front of him. He surveyed it a moment before exhaling heavily and pulling on the jute string. It fell away and he began unwrapping the paper only to become victim to a paper cut. He let his finger bleed all over the brown paper and box.

The box was nothing spectacular, something one would pick up in a retail store or an arts-and-crafts outlet. Cassandra deserved more than this plainness. He threw the lid across his desk and it hit the pile of mail, knocking it over. What met his nose was unexpected. _Please no_. A flowery scent wafted up to him and he momentarily placed his head in his hands before continuing_. I cannot take much more._

He resigned to unpacking the container, the residual scent of his wife made stronger by his manipulation of the tissue paper that covered the locket and phone. He pulled them out and held one in each hand, imagining they were still warm from her touch. His morbidity got the better of him, and he sniffed each one, even though doing so further destroyed him.

Scooting the box closer, he rustled through the rest of the tissue, surmising that if they were indeed returning all things of hers, they had left something out.

_There. There it is_. It had gotten caught in between the tissue papers.

Her wedding band.

He had been praying that he was mistaken. That it was just a condolence gift—_not_ the locket, _not _the phone . . . _not_ her wedding band. He just did not know where for sure his beseeching traveled, his request drifting through the cosmos the way a stream of incense billows up to heaven.

He knew he had not been wrong, deep down. But, still . . . He knocked a paperweight off his desk and it shattered like his hope. Another sigh escaped from his lips, morphing into a sob when he opened the locket and saw Boo's photograph. He knew he should not have done that, but he could not resist. For some unholy reason, he needed the torment.

_Is my love letter here_? The clasp popped open and the hidden parchment fell out. He stared at it and shook his head in bewilderment.

_Could they not allow her to keep even that_? _Any of it_? _Our photos_? _Her child's picture_? _Not even THAT_?

Bitter vile churned like ocean waves in his stomach and rose in the back of his throat, inviting that sickness to sweep over him again. He yanked the trashcan from under his desk and retched into it. Pretty soon he would have no enamel left on the back of his teeth. The spasms made his muscles sore but he deserved it. Men who cannot—or chose not to—protect their families are less than worms.

_Who took you, Cassandra_? _Who_? _Who_? He was so tired. _They will regret it_.

Placing the trinkets back into the box and shoving it aside, he grabbed the mail and began the banal task of riffling through it. Gabe and Fara had seen to the bills, but the rest had been placed on his desk and it was time he got along with shuffling through each envelope. When Gabe knocked on the door, Oswald quickly threw the box in a drawer.

"Enter!" he called, tossing one envelope into the trash, another to the side, tearing one open with a letter opener, and so it continued.

"Today's mail," Gabe said, handing him most of the envelopes, while unsuccessfully trying withhold one in particular. Oswald held out his hand.

"Give me that one as well," he said. His voice dead of any emotion.

Gabe shrugged and began to tuck it away within the chest pocket of his jacket. "Oh, I don't think you need this one. An oversight on my part, boss." Oswald looked point blank at him.

"Let me see it," he ordered, a little more fire in his voice.

Gabe hesitated. "I really don't think you should. Maybe for another day."

Oswald rubbed his bleary eyes. "Gabe, let me have the damn envelope!" he insisted, holding out his hand, but resting his eyes under the fingers of one hand before pinching the bridge of his nose. He had a headache and his patience was as raw as newly ground hamburger. Gabe reluctantly handed it to him and Oswald stared at the lettering.

_Oh, you GOT to be kidding me_. He implored the ceiling, then glanced back at the envelope.

It was from City Hall. He knew it was their marriage license—approved, notarized, and filed—just the way the state liked it. This was for the Cobblepots, for _their_ records, or a frame. The platinum one that he already had hanging on the wall in their bedroom. Empty.

_Empty frame. Empty bedroom_. He placed his elbow on the desk and rested his chin in his hand. _Empty everything._ He wanted to laugh—not with the light joviality from a joke well told, but with the heavy, quailing laugh of a madman—the kind that turns into screeches. _I do not know where else to search. What else to do . . . Not even your parent's journals reveal a clue. _He thought of the three leather-bound diaries, now locked in his safe. _Not one that I can see or decipher_.

He ruminated on Edvard Munch's painting, "The Scream".

All five versions.

_Is that because the artist KEPT screaming_? _I know how you feel, or _you_ know how _I_ feel_.

Rumor has it, the bridge in that iconic scene of despair and insanity leads to a lunatic asylum. One must take heart in realizing—the path also leads _away from it_.

Gabe reached out his hand. "Why don't you let me take care of that, boss? I can file it, or frame it. Whichever you like."

Oswald appreciated the concern he heard in his first lieutenant's voice, but threw the envelope to the side as if it did not mean a thing to him. "Thank you, Gabe, but that will be all."

"It's lunchtime, maybe I could send up . . ."

Oswald cut him off. "I am devoid of appetite." _Are they feeding you_? Was she going hungry?

"You need to eat . . ."

Oswald slammed his fists down on the desktop, the impact causing the items on top to jump. "Fine! Send me up every pasta, bread, and pastry on the menu followed by custard and ice cream and pudding and I will wash it down with soda and chocolate milk! And make sure everything is fried in lard! _Twice_! Even the ice cream! There! _Are you happy now_!" His voice broke and Oswald could feel his lip begin to quiver. He turned away from Gabe to pretend he was busy with something else. "Go away."

"We'll find her, boss," Gabe said quietly. "Even if it takes forever."

Oswald slumped his shoulders, but nodded. "Orpheus," he whispered.

"What, boss?"

Oswald shook his head. "Nothing. Thank you, Gabe." Fifteen minutes later, Gabe had the kitchen send up grilled swordfish with herbed fruit salsa, water with lots of ice cubes, and hot mint tea. He allowed his boss three shortbread cookies to have with his tea. As he ate, Oswald did not taste a thing.

"I will find you," he said aloud to no one, as he bit into the cookie. He was not even aware he was chewing. For the time, he decided to leave her things where they were. This was to convince himself that she would be back. He pitched the cookie back onto the plate.

They had returned her things. It was a mind game. They were playing with him.

They had chosen the wrong toys. Cassandra and him. _Bad move_.

Her phone and locket returned. _She is not dead_.

The doctors said she could not survive. _She is not dead_. _I know a secret. I know she heals. Fast. Somehow, not instantaneously, but quicker than the rest of us. _

Empty frame. _Not dead_.

Empty bed. _Not dead_.

Her ring returned. _Her ring_. It was sacrilegious that they had mailed this back to him. Touched her skin. Removed it from her very finger. His blood boiled, the rush of it pounding so forcefully through his ears, he almost did not hear the slight beep. It came from his desk drawer.

Oswald stared at it for a moment before shrugging, thinking he had imagined the noise, when it beeped again. Slowly, he opened the drawer and stared down at the box, flipping the lid away with in a quick flick of his finger. He stared at the phone, and was about to close the drawer, when he heard it beep again. He dreaded pressing the button, but did it anyway, to listen to the message.

What followed pierced his heart and mind like sharpened icicles and froze his blood in midstream. One could ice skate on it.

He recognized her scream and the light cry afterwards that sounded like a kitten mewing. She cried out again.

It was then he prayed for her death, so whatever agony they were visiting upon her would end. Psychological? Physical? He did not dare to think.

Oswald's own scream rivaled the shriek of even the most ardent banshee. So what if anyone could hear him. In a blinded rage, he shoved everything from his desk in one fluid movement, papers soaring up into the air and folders hitting the carpet with a thud. He picked up the computer monitor and using all his strength, bashed it down on the floor. Only the base broke, but Oswald was not deterred. He grabbed the display and chucked it against the wall—where it exploded like plastic fireworks against his Shakespearean quote.

There was a rap at the door and Gabe poked his head around the edge, dunking back behind it just in time to avoid a ceramic statue from hitting him in between the eyes.

"Leave me be!" Oswald yelled, and Gabe obliged.

She was dying, one way or another. And, now he was dead too.

Vengeance is mine, sayeth The Penguin.

As a broken man transformed into a new creature, the city sensed another sinister and bloodthirsty presence preparing to make its entrance. Theodore Galavan rode into Gotham, a faux sheriff behind a charming smile—a hero as bright as paste gems and as shiny as unpolished silver.

Gotham shivered.

END OF BEFORE &amp; BEYOND PAIN AND PREJUDICE: A REIMAGINING

PART ONE


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